THQMA5  -A  LINL.EY 

15Q2A  NORMANDIE  AVE 
GARHFNA      CA  90247 


THE   BLACK 


BOOKS  BY 


ANGEL  ESQUIRE 

TEH  ANGEL  OP  TERROR 

THE  BLACEE  ABBOT 

BLUE  HAND 

CAPTAINS  OP  SOULS 

THE   CLEVER   ONE 

THE   CLUE  OP  THE  NEW  PIN 

THE    CLUE  OP  THE  TWISTED 

CANDLE 

THE   CRIMSON  CIRCLE 
THE   DAFFODIL  MURDER 
THE   DARK    EYES   OP   LONDOW 
DIANA  OF  KARA- KARA 
THE    DOOR    WITH    SEVEN 

LOCKS 

THE    FACE   IN  THE  NIGHT 
THE    FELLOWSHIP   OP  THE 

FROG 

THE  FLYING  SQUAD 
THE  FOUR  JUST  MEN 
THE  GIRL  FROM  SCOTLAND 

YARD 

THE  GREEN  ARCHER 
GREEN  RUST 


GUNMAN'S  BLUFF 

THE  HAIRY  ARM 

JACK  ©"JUDGMENT 

KATE  PLUS  10 

A  KING  BY  NIGHT 

THE   MAN  WHO  KNEW 

THE   MELODY  OP  DEATH 

THE   MISSING  MILLIONS 

THE   MURDER    BOOK    OP   J.    Q. 

REEDER 

THE   NORTHING  TRAMP 
THE    RINGER 
THE    SECRET  HOUSE 
THE    SINISTER  MAN 
THE   SQUEALER 
THE    STRANGE    COUNTESS 
TAM  O1  THE  SCOOTS 
THE   TERRIBLE  PEOPLE 
TERROR  KEEP 
THE   TRAITORS'   GATE 
THE    THREE  JUST  MEN 
THE    TWISTER 
THE    VALLEY   OP  GHOSTS 


THE 

BLACK 

By  EDGAR  WALLACE 


A.  L. 


BURT  COMPANY 

^PUBLISHERS 


New  York 


Chicago 


Published  by  arrangement  with  Doubleday,  Doran  &  Company,  Inc. 
Printed  In  U.  S.  A. 


KK.     SIGHTS     RESERVED 

MINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  *T 

THE     COUNTRY     LIFE     PRESS 
GARDEN    CITY,     N.    T. 


SRLE 
Mi. 


TO  MARNEY 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I.  The  Black 

II.  The  Lady  of  Creith 

III.  The  Head  of  the  Creiths 

IV.  A  Caller  at  Wold  House 

V.  The  Monkey  and  the  Gourd 

VI.  Hamon  Tells  His  News 

VII.  Into  the  Storm 

VIII.  The  Robber 

IX.  Mr.  Hamon  Loses  Money 

X.  The  Frame-up 

XI.  Jane  Smith 

XII.  Miss  Lydia  Hamon 

XIII.  AtBlackheath 

XIV.  Caught 

XV.  Joan  Makes  a  Confession 

XVI.  Mr.  Hamon  Is  Shown  Out 

XVII.  Gentle  Julius 

XVIII.  The  Trial 

XIX.  The  Tea  Shop 

XX.  A  Caller 

XXI.  A  Volume  of  Emerson 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

XXII.  Welcome  Home 

XXIII.  The  New  Housekeeper 

XXIV.  Jim  Learns  Things 
XXV.  The  Cablegram 

XXVI.  Joan  Called  Jane 

XXVII.  Mrs.  Cornford's  Lodger 

XXVIII.  Mr.  Welling  Gives  Advice 

XXIX.  A  Love  Call 

XXX.  Sadi 

XXXI.  Joan  Tells  the  Truth 

XXXII.  Captain  Welling  Understands 

XXXIII.  The  Foreign  Sailor 

XXXIV.  The  Cord 

XXXV.  The  Letter  That  Came  by  Post 

XXXVI.  The  Bannockwaite  Bride 

XXXVII.  The  Letter 

XXXVIII.  A  Yachting  Trip 

XXXIX.  The  Chapel  in  the  Wood 

XL.  The  Lover 

XLI.  A  Photograph 

XLII.  Captain  Welling:  Investigator 

XLIII.  The  Man  in  the  Night 

XLIV.  Murder 

XLV.  Wanted 

XLVI.  Pointed  Shoes 

XLVII.  The  Yacht 


CONTENTS 


XLVIII.  Mutiny 

XLIX.  The  Man  on  the  Beach 

L.  The  Play- 

LI.  The  Courtyard 

LII.  The  House  of  Sadi 

LIII.  The  House  in  the  Hollow 

LIV.  A  Visit  to  the  Basha 

LV.  The  Lady  from  Lisbon 

LVI.  Captain  Welling  Adds  a  Postscript 

LVII.  The  Ride  to  the  Hills 

LVIII.  At  the  White  House 

LIX.  The  Face  at  the  Window 

LX.  The  Marriage 

LXI.  The  Beggar  Husband 

LXII.  The  Escape 

LXIII.  The  End  of  Sadi 

LXIV.  A  Moorish  Woman's  Return 

LXV.  The  Reverend  Gentleman 

LXVI.  A  Luncheon  Party 

LXVII.  The  Return 

LXVIII.  TheEndofHamon 


230 
236 

240 
244 
248 

253 
260 

264 

272 
276 
279 

287 
291 
295 

302 

3°5 
310 


320 
326 
332 


THE   BLACK 


CHAPTER   I 

The  Black 

JAMES  LEXINGTON  MORLAKE,  gentleman  of  leisure,  Lord  of 
the  Manor  of  Wold  and  divers  other  titles  which  he  rarely 
employed,  unlocked  the  drawer  of  his  elaborate  Empire 
writing-table  and  gazed  abstractedly  into  its  depths.  It  was 
lined  with  steel  and  there  were  four  distinct  bolts.  Slowly  he 
put  in  his  hand  and  took  out  first  a  folded  square  of  black  silk, 
then  a  businesslike  automatic  pistol,  then  a  roll  of  fine  leather. 
He  unfastened  a  string  that  was  tied  about  the  middle  and 
unrolled  the  leather  on  the  writing-table.  It  was  a  hold-all  of 
finely-grained  sealskin,  and  in  its  innumerable  pockets  and 
loops  was  a  bewildering  variety  of  tools,  grips,  ratchets — each 
small,  each  of  the  finest  tempered  steel. 

He  examined  the  diamond-studded  edge  of  a  bore,  no  larger 
than  a  cheese  tester,  then  replacing  the  tool,  he  rolled  up  the 
hold-all  and  sat  back  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  fixed  meditatively 
upon  the  articles  he  had  exposed. 

James  Morlake's  flat  in  Bond  Street  was,  perhaps,  the  most 
luxurious  apartment  in  that  very  exclusive  thoroughfare. 
The  room  in  which  he  sat,  with  its  high  ceiling  fantastically 
carved  into  scrolls  and  arabesques  by  the  most  cunning  of 
Moorish  workmen,  was  wide  and  long  and  singular.  The  walls 
were  of  marble,  the  floor  an  amazing  mosaic  covered  with  the 
silky  rugs  of  Ispahan.  Four  hanging  lamps,  delicate  fabrics  of 
silver  and  silk,  shed  a  subdued  light. 

With  the  exception  of  the  desk,  incongruously  gaudy  in 
the  severe  and  beautiful  setting,  there  was  little  furniture.  A 
low  divan  under  the  curtained  window,  a  small  stool,  lacquered 
a  vivid  green,  and  another  chair  was  all. 

The  man  who  sat  at  the  writing-table  might  have  been  forty 
— he  was  four  years  less — or  fifty.  His  was  the  face  of  a  savant, 


2  THE  BLACK 

eager,  alive,  mobile.  There  was  a  hint  of  laughter  in  his  eyes, 
more  than  a  hint  of  sadness.  A  picturesque  and  most  present- 
able person  was  James  Lexington  Morlake,  reputedly  of  New 
York  City  (though  some  doubted  this)  and  now  of  823  New 
Bond  Street  in  the  County  of  London  and  of  Wold  House  in 
the  County  of  Sussex.  His  evening  coat  fitted  the  broad  shoul- 
ders perfectly ;  the  white  bow  at  his  collar  was  valet-tied. 

He  looked  up  from  the  table  and  its  sinister  display  and 
clapped  his  hands  once.  Through  the  silken  curtain  that  veiled 
the  far  end  of  the  room  came  a  soft-footed  little  Moor,  his 
spotless  white  f  ellap  and  crimson  tarboosh  giving  him  a  certain 
vividness  against  the  soft  background. 

"Mahmet,  I  shall  be  going  away  to-night — I  will  let  you 
know  when  I  am  returning."  He  spoke  in  Moorish,  which  is 
the  purest  of  the  three  Arabics.  "When,  by  the  favour  of  God, 
I  return,  I  shall  have  work  for  you." 

Mahmet  raised  his  hand  in  salute,  then,  stepping  forward 
lightly,  kissed  each  lapel  of  James  Morlake's  dress  coat  before 
he  kissed  his  own  thumb,  for  Morlake  was,  by  certain  stand- 
ards, holy  to  the  little  slave  man  he  had  bought  in  the  market- 
place of  Rahbut. 

"I  am  your  servant,  haj"  he  said.  "You  will  wish  to  talk  with 
your  secretary  ?" 

Morlake  nodded,  and,  with  a  quick  flutter  of  salaaming 
hands,  Mahmet  disappeared.  He  had  never  ceased  to  be  amused 
by  this  description  of  Binger.  "Secretary"  was  the  delicate 
euphemism  of  the  Moor  who  would  not  say  "servant"  of  any 
white  man. 

Mr.  Binger  appeared,  a  short,  stout  man  with  a  very  red  face 
and  a  very  flaxen  moustache,  which  he  rapidly  twirled  in  mo- 
ments of  embarrassment.  Without  the  evidence  of  the  neatly 
parted  hair  and  the  curl  plastered  over  his  forehead,  he  was 
obviously  "old  soldier." 

He>looked  at  his  employer  and  then  at  the  kit  of  tools  on  the 
table,  and  sighed. 

"Coin'  hout,  sir  ?"  he  asked  dolefully. 

He  was  that  unusual  type  of  Cockney,  the  man  who  put 
aspirates  where  none  were  intended.  Not  one  Londoner  in 


THE  BLACK  3 

ten  thousand  has  this  trick,  ninety  per  cent,  may  drop  an  "h" 
— only  the  very  few  find  it. 

"I'm  going  out ;  I  may  be  away  for  some  days.  You  know 
where  to  find  me." 

"I  hope  so,  sir,"  said  the  gloomy  Binger.  "I  hope  I  shan't  find 
you  where  I'm  always  expectin'  to  find  you — in  a  hawful  prison 
cell." 

James  Morlake  laughed  softly. 

"You  were  never  designed  by  providence  to  be  a  burglar's 
valet,  Binger,"  he  said,  and  Mr.  Binger  shivered. 

"Don't  use  that  word,  sir,  please !  It  makes  me  tremble  with 
horrer !  It's  not  for  the  likes  of  me  to  criticise,  which  I've  never 
done.  An'  if  you  hadn't  been  a  burglar  I'd  have  been  a  corpse. 
You  ran  a  risk  for  me  and  I'm  not  likely  to  forget  it !" 

Which  was  true.  For  one  night,  James  Lexington  Morlake, 
in  the  course  of  business,  had  broken  into  a  warehouse  of  which 
Binger  was  caretaker.  Morlake  took  the  warehouse  en  route 
to  a  bigger  objective — there  was  a  bank  at  the  end  of  the  ware- 
house block — and  he  had  found  an  almost  lifeless  Binger  who 
had  fallen  through  a  trap  and  had  broken  a  leg  in  the  most  com- 
plicated manner  it  is  possible  to  break  a  leg.  And  Morlake  had 
stopped  and  tended  him ;  carried  him  to  the  hospital,  though 
Binger  guessed  him  for  what  he  was,  "The  Black" — the  terror 
of  every  bank  manager  in  the  kingdom.  In  this  way  both  men, 
taking  the  most  amazing  risks,  came  into  acquaintance.  Not 
that  it  was,  perhaps,  any  great  risk  for  James  Morlake,  for  he 
understood  men. 

He  selected  a  cigarette  from  the  gold  case  he  took  from  his 
pocket,  and  lit  it. 

"One  of  these  days,  perhaps  I'll  become  a  respectable  mem- 
ber of  society,  Binger,"  he  said,  a  chuckle  in  his  voice. 

"I  'ope  so,  sir,  I  do  most  sincerely  pray  you  will,"  said  Bin- 
ger earnestly.  "It's  not  a  nice  profession — you're  hout  all  hours 
of  the  night  .  .  .  it's  not  healthy !  Speaking  as  a  hold  soldier, 
sir,  I  tell  you  that  honesty  is  the  best  policy." 

"How  the  devil  did  you  know  that  there  was  an  'h*  in  'hon- 
esty?' "  asked  James  Morlake  admiringly. 

"I  pronounced  it,  sir,"  said  Binger. 


4  THE  BLACK 

"That  is  what  I  mean — now,  Binger,  listen  to  me.  I  want 
the  car  at  the  corner  of  Albemarle  Street  at  two  o'clock.  It 
is  raining  a  little,  so  have  the  hood  up.  Don't  be  within  a  dozen 
yards  of  the  car  when  I  arrive.  Have  an  Oxford  number- 
plate  behind  and  the  Sussex  plate  under  the  seat.  A  vacuum 
flask  with  hot  coffee  and  a  packet  of  sandwiches — and  that's 
all." 

Binger,  at  the  parting  of  the  curtains,  struggled  to  express 
what  he  felt  was  improper  and  even  sinful  to  say. 

"Good  luck,  sir,"  he  said  faintly. 

"I  wish  you  meant  it,"  said  James  Morlake  as  he  rose 
and,  catching  up  the  long  black  coat  from  the  divan,  slipped 
pistol  and  tools  into  his  pocket  .  .  . 

At  the  Burlington  Street  Safe  Deposit,  the  night  watch- 
man had  a  stool  on  which  he  might  sit  in  the  lone  long  watches. 
It  was  a  stool  with  one  leg  in  the  centre,  and  had  this  great 
advantage,  that,  if  its  occupant  dozed,  he  fell.  Nature,  however, 
evolves  qualities  to  meet  every  human  emergency,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  years  the  night  watchman,  by  leaning  his  elbow 
on  a  projecting  ledge  and  stiffening  his  body  against  the 
wall,  could  enjoy  a  comfortable  condition  of  coma  that  approxi- 
mated to  sleep.  .  .  . 

"Sorry !"  said  a  gentle  voice. 

The  watchman  woke  with  a  start  and  stumbled  to  his  feet, 
reaching  for  the  revolver  that  should  have  been  on  the  little 
wooden  ledge. 

"Your  gun  is  in  my  pocket  and  the  alarm  is  disconnected," 
said  the  man  in  black,  and  the  eyes  that  showed  through  the 
taut  silk  mask  that  covered  his  face  twinkled  humorously. 
"March!" 

The  night  man,  dazed  and  already  searching  his  mind  for 
excuses  that  would  relieve  him  of  the  charge  of  sleeping  on 
duty,  obeyed. 

The  vaults  of  the  Burlington  Street  Safe  Deposit  are  under- 
ground, and  for  the  use  of  the  watchman  there  is  a  small  con- 
crete apartment  fitted  with  an  electric  stove  and  a  folding 
table.  There  is  also  a  small  safe  built  into  the  wall. 


THE  BLACK  $ 

"In  here,"  said  the  man  in  black.  "Face  the  wall  and  save 
my  soul  from  the  hideous  crime  of  murder." 

Standing  with  his  nose  to  concrete,  the  watchman  heard  the 
snap  of  a  lock  and  the  jingle  of  keys.  In  the  safe  were  kept  the 
pass  keys  and  duplicates,  and  normally  it  could  not  be  opened 
except  by  the  President  or  Secretary  of  the  company.  The 
stranger  seemed  to  experience  no  difficulty  in  dispensing  with 
the  help  of  these  officers. 

There  came  the  thud  of  the  room  door  closing,  and  then 
the  turn  of  the  key.  After  that,  silence,  except  for  the  shrill 
whistle  of  air  through  the  overhead  ventilator.  In  ten  minutes 
the  visitor  was  back  again,  and  the  watchman  saw  him  replace 
the  keys  he  had  taken,  close  and  lock  the  safe. 

"That  is  all,  I  think,"  said  the  stranger.  "I  have  stolen  very 
little — just  enough  to  pay  for  my  vacation  and  a  new  car.  One 
must  live." 

"I'll  get  fired  over  this !"  groaned  the  watchman. 

"It  depends  on  the  lie  you  tell,"  said  the  mask,  standing  in 
the  doorway,  twirling  his  automatic  alarmingly.  "If  you  say 
that  you  were  drugged,  as  the  night  patrol  at  the  Home  Coun- 
ties Bank  said,  you  may  find  people  sceptical  .  .  ." 

"What  about  the  hall-man?"  asked  the  watchman  hope~ 
fully. 

"He  is  in  his  box,  asleep  .  .  .  veritably  doped  by  an  ingen- 
ious method  of  my  own,"  said  the  intruder. 

He  slammed  the  door,  and  again  the  key  turned.  It  seemed 
to  turn  twice,  and  so  it  proved,  for  when  the  custodian  tried 
the  door  it  opened  readily.  But  The  Black  had  gone. 

Three  headquarters  men  were  at  the  safe  deposit  within  a 
few  minutes  of  the  alarm  sounding.  They  found  the  hall-keeper 
slowly  recovering  his  senses  and  the  night  watchman  voluble 
and  imaginative. 

"Don't  tell  me  that  stuff  about  drugs,"  said  Chief  Inspector 
Wall  irritably.  "It  may  go  in  the  case  of  the  hall-man,  but  you 
were  asleep,  and  as  soon  as  he  turned  a  gun  on  you,  you  played 
rabbit.  That's  your  story,  and  I  won't  listen  to  any  other." 

The  hall-man  could  offer  no  explanation.  He  was  sitting  in 


6  THE  BLACK 

his  little  office  drinking  coffee  that  he  had  made,  and  that  was 
all  he  remembered. 

"Keep  that  coffee-cup  for  analysis,"  said  Wall.  "The  man 
must  have  been  on  the  premises — it  was  easy  once  he  doped 
the  hall-keeper." 

The  upper  part  of  the  safe  deposit  was  let  out  in  office  suites, 
the  ground  floor  and  basement  being  the  premises  of  the  de- 
posit. A  broad  passage  led  from  the  street  to  the  vault  entrance, 
and  was  barred  half-way  down  with  a  heavy  steel  gate  to  which 
the  hall-man  sitting  in  his  office  on  the  inside  alone  had  the 
key. 

"The  thing  was  simple,"  said  Wall,  when  he  had  finished  his 
cross-examination.  "Peters  left  his  office  and  went  down  to  see 
the  night  man.  In  some  manner  The  Black  got  through — he'll 
open  any  lock.  After  that  he  had  only  to  watch  and  wait." 

In  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  the  secretary  of  the  Safe 
Deposit  arrived,  and  accompanied  the  police  in  a  more  thor- 
ough search  through  the  inner  vaults. 

One  little  safe  was  unlocked.  It  was  that  which  stood  in  the 
name  of  James  Morlake,  and  the  safe  was  entirely  empty. 


CHAPTER   II 

The  Lady  of  Creith 

STEPHENS,  the  butler  at  Creith  House,  read  of  the  robbery 
in  the  morning  newspaper,  and,  being  of  a  communicative 
nature,  he  carried  the  news  to  his  master  with  his  morning 
coffee.  He  might  have  created  a  greater  sensation  had  he 
told  the  guest  of  the  house,  but  he  disliked  Mr.  Ralph  Hamon 
for  many  reasons,  and  added  to  his  dislike  was  a  certain  un- 
easiness of  mind.  A  servant  may  find  pleasure  in  his  prejudices 
only  so  long  as  they  are  directed  toward  the  uninfluential.  So 
Mr.  Ralph  Hamon  had  appeared  on  his  first  few  visits  to  the 


THE  LADY  OF  CREITH  7 

Earl  of  Creith.  His  attitude  of  deference  toward  the  head  of 
the  house,  his  humility  in  the  presence  of  the  young  lady,  his 
eagerness  to  please,  emphasised  his  inferiority.  But  his  desire 
to  stand  well  with  the  folk  of  Creith  House  did  not  extend  to 
the  servants.  The  tips  he  gave  were  paltry  or  were  pointedly 
withheld,  but  for  this  Stephens  and  his  staff  were  prepared, 
for  Mr.  Hamon's  chauffeur  had  advertised  his  meanness  in 
advance. 

It  was  the  change  in  the  financier's  attitude  toward  the  fam- 
ily that  worried  Stephens  and  caused  his  plump,  smooth  face  to 
wrinkle  in  uncomfortable  thought. 

In  the  early  days  he  had  addressed  the  Earl  as  "my  lord" — 
and  only  servants  and  tenants  and  tradesmen  "my  lord  nobil- 
ity." And  Lady  Joan  had  been  "your  ladyship."  Now  it  was 
"my  dear  Creith"  and  "my  dear  young  lady,"  more  often  than 
not  in  a  tone  of  good-natured  contempt. 

Stephens  stood  at  the  long  window  of  the  banqueting  hall, 
staring  across  the  broad  expanse  of  shaven  lawn  to  the  river 
that  traced  the  northern  boundary  of  the  Creith  acres.  It  was  a 
glorious  morning  in  early  autumn.  The  trees  held  to  their  deep 
green,  but  here  and  there  the  russet  and  gold  of  autumnal 
foliage  showed  on  the  wooded  slopes  of  No  Man's  Hill.  Sun- 
light sparkled  on  the  sluggish  Avon,  the  last  wraith  of  mist  was 
curling  through  the  pines  that  crested  the  hill,  and  the  tremen- 
dous silence  of  the  countryside  was  broken  only  by  the  flurry 
of  wings  as  a  hen  pheasant  flew  clumsily  from  covert  to  covert. 

"Morning,  Stephens." 

Stephens  turned  guiltily  as  he  heard  the  voice  of  the  man 
about  whom  he  was  at  that  moment  thinking  so  disrespectfully. 

Ralph  Hamon  had  come  noiselessly  into  the  panelled  hall. 
He  was  a  fair  man  of  middle  height,  stockily  built,  inclined  to 
stoutness.  Stephens  put  his  age  at  forty-five,  being  inclined,  for 
personal  reasons,  to  discount  the  visitor's  slight  baldness.  Mr. 
Hamon's  large  face  was  sallow  and  usually  expressionless.  His 
high,  bald  forehead,  his  dark,  deep-set  eyes  and  the  uncompro- 
mising line  of  his  hard  mouth  suggested  learning.  Stephens  was 
reminded  of  a  hateful  schoolmaster  he  had  known  in  his  youth. 
The  baldness  was  emphasised  by  the  floss-like  wisp  of  hair  that 


8  THE  BLACK 

grew  thinly  on  the  crown,  and  was  especially  noticeable  when 
he  stooped  to  pick  up  a  pin  from  the  polished  floor. 

"That  is  lucky,"  he  said,  as  he  pushed  the  pin  into  the  lapel 
of  his  well-fitting  morning  coat.  "There's  no  better  way  of 
starting  the  day  than  by  getting  something  for  nothing,  Ste- 
phens." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Stephens.  He  had  a  desire  to  point  out  that 
the  pin  was  somebody's  property,  but  he  refrained.  "There  has 
been  another  Black  robbery,  sir,"  he  said. 

Hamon  snatched  the  paper  from  his  hand,  frowning. 

"A  Black  robbery— where?" 

He  read  and  his  frown  deepened. 

"The  Burlington  this  time,"  he  said,  speaking  to  himself.  "I 

wonder ?"  He  glared  at  Stephens,  and  the  stout  man 

wilted.  "I  wonder,"  said  Mr.  Hamon  again,  and  then,  abruptly : 
"Lord  Creith  is  not  down?" 

"No,  sir." 

"And  Lady  Joan?" 

"Her  ladyship  is  in  the  park.  She  went  riding  an  hour  ago." 

"Humph!" 

Mr.  Hamon's  thick  nose  wrinkled  as  he  threw  down  the 
newspaper.  Overnight  he  had  asked  Joan  Carston  to  ride  with 
him,  and  she  had  made  the  excuse  that  her  favourite  hack  had 
gone  lame.  Stephens  was  not  a  thought  reader,  but  he  remem- 
bered hastily  certain  instructions  he  had  received. 

"Her  ladyship  didn't  think  she  would  be  able  to  ride,  but  her 
horse  had  got  over  his  lameness  this  morning." 

"Humph !"  said  Mr.  Hamon  again. 

He  took  a  quill  toothpick  from  his  pocket  and  nibbled  at  it. 

"Lady  Joan  told  me  that  she  had  put  somebody  in  one  of 
the  cottages  on  the  estate — at  least,  she  didn't  tell  me,  but  I 
heard  her  mention  the  fact  to  Lord  Creith.  Who  is  it  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  said  Stephens  truthfully.  "I  believe  it  is 
a  lady  and  her  daughter  .  .  .  her  ladyship  met  her  in  London 
and  gave  her  the  cottage  for  a  holiday." 

One  corner  of  Hamon's  mouth  lifted. 

"Being  a  philanthropist,  eh  ?"  he  sneered. 

Stephens  could  only  wonder  at  the  cool  assurance  of  a  man 


THE  LADY  OF  CREITH  9 

who,  a  year  before,  had  almost  grovelled  to  the  girl  about 
whom  he  could  now  speak  with  such  insolent  familiarity. 

Hamon  walked  slowly  through  the  stone-flagged  entrance 
hall  into  the  open.  There  was  no  sign  of  Joan,  and  he  guessed 
that  if  he  asked  Stephens  which  way  Joan  had  gone,  the  man 
would  either  plead  ignorance  or  lie.  Hamon  had  no  illusions  as 
to  his  popularity. 

If  the  girl  was  invisible  to  him,  she  saw  him  plainly  enough 
from  No  Man's  Hill,  a  black  against  the  green  of  the  lawn. 
She  sat  astride  the  old  hunter  she  rode,  looking  thoughtfully 
toward  the  big,  rambling  house,  her  young  face  troubled,  the 
clear  grey  of  her  eyes  clouded  with  doubt.  A  slim,  gracious 
figure,  almost  boyish  in  its  outlines,  she  watched  the  black 
speck  as  it  moved  back  to  the  house,  and  for  a  second  a  faint 
smile  trembled  at  the  corners  of  the  red  lips. 

"Up,  Toby!"  She  jerked  the  rein,  disturbing  the  grazing 
horse,  and  set  his  head  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  No  Man's  Hill  had 
been  disputed  territory  for  centuries,  and  its  right  to  be  in- 
cluded within  the  boundaries  of  the  adjoining  estates  had 
impoverished  at  least  three  generations  of  two  families.  The 
Creiths  had  fought  their  claim  in  the  courts  since  1735.  The 
Talmers  had  indulged  in  litigation  for  fifty  years,  and  in  the 
end  had  died  embittered  and  ruined.  The  owners  of  Wold 
House  had  gone  the  same  way.  Would  the  new  owner  of  the 
Wold  continue  the  bad  work,  Joan  wondered  ?  Somehow  she 
thought  he  was  too  sensible.  He  had  been  two  years  in  occupa- 
tion and  had  not  issued  a  writ,  though  his  title  deeds  undoubt- 
edly gave  him  that  disastrous  right. 

Presently  she  stopped  and,  dismounting  and  letting  the 
horse  graze  at  will,  she  climbed  the  last  sheer  slope  and  came 
to  the  top.  Mechanically  she  looked  at  the  watch  on  her  wrist. 
It  was  exactly  eight  o'clock.  And  then  her  eyes  sought  the 
bridle  path  that  skirted  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

She  need  not  have  examined  her  watch.  The  man  she  was 
overlooking  had  ridden  out  of  the  copse  at  exactly  this  mo- 
ment, day  after  day,  month  after  month.  A  tall  man  who  sat 
his  horse  easily  and  smoked  a  pipe  as  he  rode. 

She  took  the  glasses  from  the  case  she  carried  and  focussed 


io  THE  BLACK 

them.  The  scrutiny  was  inexcusable ;  Joan  admitted  the  fault 
without  hesitation.  It  was  he ;  the  lean,  aesthetic  face,  the  grey 
patch  at  the  temples,  the  open-throated  rough  shirt.  She  could 
have  drawn  him,  and  had. 

"Joan  Carston,  you  are  an  unmaidenly  and  shameless 
woman,"  she  said  sternly.  "Is  this  man  anything  to  you  ?  No ! 
Are  you  enveloping  him  in  a  golden  cloud  of  romance?  Yes! 
Isn't  it  vulgar  curiosity  and  the  desire  of  youth  for  mystery 
that  brings  you  here  every  morning  to  spy  upon  this  middle' 
aged  and  harmless  gentleman  ?  Yes !  And  aren't  you  ashamed  ? 
No!" 

The  unconscious  object  of  her  interrogations  was  parallel 
with  her  now.  In  one  hand  he  carried  a  thin,  pliable  riding 
whip  with  which  he  smoothed  the  horse's  mane  absently.  Look- 
ing neither  to  left  nor  right,  he  passed  on,  and  she  watched  him 
with  a  puzzled  frown  until  he  was  out  of  sight. 

Mr.  James  Lexington  Morlake  was  as  great  a  source  of 
puzzlement  to  the  people  of  the  country  as  to  himself.  For  two 
years  he  had  been  master  of  Wold  House,  and  nothing  was 
known  of  him  except  that  he  was  apparently  a  rich  man.  He 
most  certainly  had  no  friends.  The  Vicar  had  called  upon  him 
soon  after  his  arrival.  He  had  been  canvassed  on  behalf  of 
local  charities,  and  had  responded  handsomely,  but  he  had  de- 
clined every  social  invitation  which  would  bring  him  into  closer 
touch  with  his  neighbours.  He  neither  visited  nor  received. 
Judicious  enquiries  were  set  afoot ;  cook  talked  to  cook,  and 
parlourmaid  to  parlourmaid,  and  in  the  end  he  stood  disap- 
pointingly revealed  as  a  man  whose  life  was  exemplary,  if  a 
little  erratic,  for  nobody  could  be  certain  whether  he  was  at 
home  at  Wold  or  in  London.  Even  to  his  servants  he  did  mot 
disclose  his  plan  for  the  day  or  the  week.  This  eccentricity  was 
common  property. 

Joan  Carston  mounted  her  horse  and  rode  down  the  hill 
toward  the  path  the  man  had  followed.  When  she  came  to  the 
track  she  looked  to  her  left  in  time  to  see  the  battered  som- 
brero he  wore  disappearing  in  the  dip  that  leads  to  the  river. 

"I'm  a  rash  and  indelicate  female,  Toby,"  she  said,  address- 
ing the  twitching  ears  of  her  horse.  "I  am  without  reserve  or, 


THE  LADY  OF  CREITH  n 

proper  pride,  but  oh !  Toby,  I'd  give  two  paper  pounds  ster- 
ling— which  is  all  I  have  in  the  world — to  talk  with  him  and  be 
disillusioned !" 

She  sent  her  audience  cantering  along  the  road,  turning  off 
through  the  dilapidated  gate  which  led  her  back  to  her  father's 
estate.  Where  the  main  road  skirted  Creith  Park  was  a  lime- 
washed  barn-like  cottage,  and  to  this  she  rode.  A  woman  stand- 
ing in  the  garden  waved  her  hand  as  the  girl  approached.  She 
was  of  middle  age,  slim  and  pretty,  and  she  carried  herself  with 
a  dignity  which  almost  disguised  the  poverty  of  her  attire. 

"Good  morning,  Lady  Joan.  We  reached  here  last  night  and 
found  everything  ready  for  us.  It  was  lovely  of  you  to  take 
such  trouble." 

"What  is  work?"  said  Joan  swinging  herself  to  the  ground. 
"Especially  when  somebody  else  does  it  ?  How  is  the  interesting 
invalid,  Mrs.  Cornford?" 

Mrs.  Cornford  smiled. 

"I  don't  know.  He  doesn't  arrive  until  to-nigVA.  You  don't 
mind  my  having  a  boarder  ?" 

"No,"  Joan  shook  her  head.  "I  wonder  you  don't  stay  here 
permanently.  Father  said  you  might.  Who  is  your  boarder  ?" 

Mrs.  Cornford  hesitated. 

"He  is  a  young  man  I  am  interested  in.  I  ought  to  tell  you 
that  he  is,  or  was,  a  dipsomaniac." 

"Good  heavens !"  said  the  startled  girl. 

"I  have  tried  to  help  him,  and  I  think  I  have.  He  is  a  gentle- 
man— it  is  rather  tragic  to  see  these  cases,  but  at  the  Mission, 
where  I  help  when  I  can  spare  the  time,  we  see  many.  You 
are  sure  you  won't  mind  ?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  laughed  Joan,  and  the  woman  looked  at  her 
admiringly. 

"You  look  pretty  in  riding  things,"  nodded  Mrs.  Cornford 
approvingly. 

"I  look  pretty  in  anything,"  said  Joan  calmly.  "There  is  no 
sense  in  blinking  facts :  I  am  pretty !  I  can't  help  it  any  more 
than  you  can.  I'm  going  to  breakfast  with  you !" 

"Yes,  they  are  expecting  me  at  Creith,"  said  Joan,  spreading 
marmalade  thickly  on  her  bread.  "At  least,  our  visitor  expects 


12  THE  BLACK 

me.  Father  expects  nothing  but  a  miracle  that  will  bring  him  a 
million  without  any  effort  on  his  part.  The  miracle  has  partly 
materialised." 

Mrs.  Cornford's  eyes  spoke  her  surprise. 

"No,  we're  not  rich,"  said  Joan,  answering  the  unspoken 
question;  "we  are  of  the  impoverished  nobility.  If  I  were  a 
man  I  should  go  to  America  and  marry  somebody  very  wealthy 
and  live  a  cat  and  dog  life  until  I  was  well  and  truly  divorced. 
As  I  am  a  girl,  I  must  marry  a  home-bred  millionaire.  Which 
I  shall  not  do." 

"But  surely  . . ."  began  Mrs.  Cornford. 

"The  house,  the  estate,  our  London  house,  are,  or  were  until 
a  week  ago,  mortgaged.  We  are  the  poorest  people  in  the 
county." 

Joan's  cool  confession  took  the  other's  breath  away. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  gently.  "It  is  rather  terrible  for  you." 

"It  isn't  a  bit,"  said  Joan.  "Besides,  everybody  here  is  at 
poverty's  door.  Everybody  except  the  mysterious  Mr.  Mor- 
lake,  who  is  popularly  credited  with  being  a  millionaire.  But 
that  is  only  because  he  doesn't  discuss  his  mortgages.  Every- 
body else  does.  We  sit  round  one  another's  tables  and  talk  fore- 
closures and  interests  and  the  price  of  corn  and  cattle  disease, 
but  mostly  we  talk  about  the  loss  the  country  will  sustain  when 
the  improvident  nobility  are  replaced  by  the  thrifty  democ- 
racy." 

Mrs.  Cornford  was  silent,  her  grave  eyes  searching  the  girl's 
face.  Joan  had  known  her  a  year.  It  was  an  advertisement  which 
Mrs.  Cornford  had  inserted  in  a  London  newspaper  asking  for 
needlework  that  had  brought  Joan  to  the  dingy  little  suburban 
street  where  the  woman  earned  sufficient  to  keep  herself  and 
her  daughter  by  her  quick  and  clever  fingers. 

"It  is  not  easy  to  be  poor,"  she  said  quietly,  and  Joan  looked 
up. 

"You've  been  rich,"  she  said,  nodding  her  head  sagely.  "I 
knew  that.  One  of  these  days  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  tell  me 
the  grisly  story — no,  I  won't !  Yes,  it's  horrible  to  be  poor,  but 
more  horrible  to  be  rich — on  terms.  Do  you  know  Mr.  Mor- 
lake?" 


THE  HEAD  OF  THE  CREITHS  13 

The  elder  woman  smiled. 

"He  is  a  local  celebrity,  isn't  he?  I  should  hardly  know  him, 
but  he  seems  to  exercise  the  imagination  of  the  people  here- 
abouts. The  girl  from  the  village  whom  you  so  kindly  sent  here 
to  tidy  the  cottage  told  me  about  him.  Is  he  a  friend  of  yours  ?" 

"He  is  a  friend  of  nobody's,"  said  Joan.  "In  fact,  he  is  so 
unfriendly  that  he  must  be  rich.  I  used  to  think  that  he  was 
going  to  be  my  prince  charming,"  she  sighed  dolefully. 

"I  wonder  if  you  are  really  sad?"  smiled  the  woman.  "I 
wonder." 

Joan's  face  was  inscrutable. 

"You  wouldn't  imagine  that  I  had  a  grisly  past  too,  would 
you?"  she  asked.  "Remember  that  I  am  quite  old — nearly 
twenty-three." 

"I  shouldn't  imagine  so,"  said  Mrs.  Cornf  ord,  amusement  in 
her  fine  eyes. 

"Or  a  terrible  secret?" 

,    "No,  I  shouldn't  think  that  either."  Mrs.  Cornf  ord  shook  her 
head. 

Joan  sighed  again. 

"I'll  go  back  to  my  burden,"  she  said. 

The  "burden"  was  walking  in  the  long  chestnut  avenue  when 
she  overtook  him. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come,  Lady  Joan,"  he  said  with  ill-assumed 
heartiness.  "I'm  starving !" 

Joan  Carston  wished  she  had  waited  an  hour  or  two. 


CHAPTER   III 
The  Head  of  the  Creiths 


FERDINAND  CARSTON,  ninth  Earl  of  Creith,  was  a  thin,  queru- 
lous man,  whose  dominant  desire  was  a  negative  one.  He  did 
Jiot  want  to  be  bothered.  He  had  spent  his  life  avoiding  trouble, 


14  THE  BLACK 

and  his  deviations  had  led  him  into  strange  places.  His  "paper" 
was  held  by  half  a  score  of  moneylenders,  his  mortgages  were 
on  the  books  of  as  many  banks.  He  did  not  wish  to  be  bothered 
by  farm  bailiffs  and  factors,  or  by  tenant  farmers.  He  could  not 
be  worried  with  the  choice  of  his  agents,  and  most  of  them  did 
not  bother  to  render  him  accurate  accounts.  From  time  to  time 
he  attempted  to  recover  his  heavy  liabilities  by  daring  specula- 
tions, and  as  he  could  not  be  troubled  with  the  business  of 
investigating  their  soundness,  he  usually  returned  to  the  well- 
worn  path  that  led  to  the  little  moneylenders'  offices  that  infest 
Sackville  and  Jermyn  streets. 

And  then  there  came  into  his  orbit  a  most  obliging  financier 
who  handsomely  accepted  the  task  of  settling  with  troublesome 
banks  and  clamouring  Shylocks.  Lord  Creith  was  grateful. 
Deuced  grateful.  He  sold  the  reversionary  rights  in  the  Creith 
estates,  and  not  only  discharged  at  one  sweep  all  his  liabilities, 
but  touched  real  money. 

He  was  in  his  library,  examining  with  interest  Tattersall's 
Sale  Catalogue,  when  his  guest  came  in  unannounced. 

"Hullo,  Hamon !"  he  said  without  any  great  geniality.  "Had 
breakfast?" 

"Joan  had  breakfast  out,"  said  Hamon  curtly. 

"Did  she  ?"  asked  Creith,  looking  at  him  over  his  glasses  and 
at  a  loss  to  continue,  yet  feeling  that  something  was  expected 
of  him  he  added :  "Did  she  ?" 

Hamon  pulled  up  a  chair  and  seated  himself  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  writing-table. 

"Have  you  ever  thought  what  will  happen  when  you  die  ?" 
he  asked. 

Lord  Creith  blinked  quickly. 

"Never  thought  of  it,  Hamon,  never  thought  of  it.  I've  been 
a  good  churchman,  though  the  tithes  are  an  infernal  nuisance 
— I  suppose  I'll  go  up  to  heaven  with  the  best  of  'em." 

"I'm  not  thinking  about  your  spiritual  future,"  said  Mr, 
Hamon.  "I'm  thinking  about  Creith." 

"The  title  goes  to  Joan — it  descends  that  way  in  our  family," 
said  his  lordship,  biting  the  end  of  a  pen-holder.  "But  why 
bother  me  about  these  details,  my  dear  fellow?  If  Joan  wants 


THE  HEAD  OF  THE  CREITHS  15 

to  preserve  the  estate  she'll  marry  you,  and  I've  no  objection. 
We've  had  some  devilish  queer  people  in  our  family  before, 
and  I  daresay  we  shall  go  on  having  devilish  queer  people.  My 
great  great  grandmother  had  a  wooden  leg." 

Mr.  Ralph  Hamon  overlooked  the  uncomplimentary  refer- 
ence, and  was  not  prepared  to  encourage  a  discussion  on  the 
deficiencies  of  Lord  Creith's  ancestors. 

"If  Joan  doesn't  want  to  marry  me?"  he  said.  "I  suppose 
you've  some  influence  ?" 

Lord  Creith  took  off  his  glasses  deliberately. 

"With  Joan  ?  Bless  your  life,  she  doesn't  take  the  slightest 
notice  of  anything  I  say!  And  very  properly.  I'm  about  the 
worst  adviser  that  anybody  could  have.  She'll  do  what  she  likes. 
Her  dear  and  blessed  mother  was  the  same.  Don't  bother  me 
now,  my  dear  good  fellow." 

"But  suppose  Joan  refuses  me  point  blank?"  persisted  the 
other. 

Lord  Creith's  smile  was  broad  and  bland. 

"Then,  my  dear  boy,  you're  finished !" 

Hamon  bit  off  the  end  of  a  cigar  deliberately,  as  Lord  Creith 
looked  significantly  at  the  door. 

"You  must  have  some  influence,  Creith,"  he  said  doggedly. 
"Talk  to  her.'"' 

The  older  man  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  obviously  bored,  as 
obviously  resigned  to  boredom. 

"I'll  speak  to  her,"  he  said.  "Oh,  by  the  way,  that  farm  you 
wanted,  you  can't  have.  I  find  that  the  mortgage  was  fore- 
closed by  the  Midland  Bank  a  month  ago,  and  the  property  has 
been  sold  to  that  queer  fish,  James  Lexington  Morlake.  Though 
why  the  dickens  he  wants  it " 

"Morlake!" 

Creith  looked  up  in  surprise.  The  sallow  face  of  Mr.  Ralph 
Hamon  was  puckered,  his  slit  of  a  mouth  was  parted  in  amaze- 
ment and  anger. 

"Morlake — no — James  Lexington  Morlake?  Does  he  live 
near  here?  Is  he  the  man  you  were  talking  about  the  other 
day — you  said  he  was  an  American.  .  .  ." 


16  THE  BLACK 

He  fired  the  questions  in  rapid  succession,  and  Lord  Creith 
closed  his  eyes  wearily. 

"I  don't  know  who  he  is  ...  though  I  mentioned  his  name 
— what  is  the  matter  with  you,  Hamon?" 

"Nothing,"  said  the  other  harshly,  "only "  He  turned 

the  subject.  "Will  you  speak  to  Joan?"  he  asked  curtly,  and 
stalked  out  of  the  library. 

Joan  was  in  her  room  when  the  maid  came  for  her,  and  short 
as  was  the  space  of  time  elapsing  between  the  summons  and  the 
answering,  Lord  Creith  was  again  absorbed  in  his  catalogue. 

"Oh,  Joan  .  .  .  yes,  I  wanted  to  see  you  about  something. 
Yes,  yes,  I  remember.  Be  as  civil  as  you  can  to  Hamon,  my 
dear." 

"Has  he  been  complaining?" 

"Good  Lord,  no !"  said  Lord  Creith.  "Only  he  has  an  idea 
that  he  would  like  to  marry  you.  I  don't  know  how  you  feel 
about  it?" 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  tell  you  ?"  she  asked,  and  his  lordship 
shook  his  head  vigorously. 

"I  don't  think  so — not  if  it's  going  to  bother  me.  Of  course, 
you  know  I've  sold  everything  .  .  .  house,  land  and  the  place 
in  London  ?" 

"To  Mr.  Hamon?" 

He  nodded. 

"Everything,"  he  said.  "If  you  don't  marry  him,  there  will 
only  be  the  bit  of  money  I  have  when  I— er — step  off,  if  you 
forgive  the  vulgarity." 

"I  gathered  that,"  she  said. 

"Of  course,  your  grandmother's  money  comes  to  you  when 
you  are  twenty-four.  Happily,  I  haven't  been  able  to  touch  that, 
though  I  tried  very  hard — very  hard !  But  those  lawyers  are 
cute  fellows,  deuced  cute !  Now  what  about  marrying  this  fel- 
low Hamon  ?" 

She  smiled. 

"I  thought  you  wouldn't,"  said  her  father  with  satisfaction. 
"That  is  all  I  wanted  you  for  ...  oh,  yes,  do  you  know  this  man 
Morlake?" 

If  he  had  been  looking  at  her  he  would  have  been  startled 


A  CALLER  AT  WOLD  HOUSE  17 

by  the  pink  flush  that  came  to  her  face.  But  his  eyes  were  al- 
ready on  the  catalogue. 

"Why?" 

"I  mentioned  his  name  to  Hamon — never  saw  a  man  get 
more  annoyed.  What  is  Morlake?" 

"A  man,"  she  said  laconically. 

"How  interesting!"  said  his  lordship,  and  returned  to  his 
sale  list. 


CHAPTER   IV 

A  Caller  at  Wold  House 

JAMES  MORLAKE  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  big  cedar  that  grew 
half  way  between  his  house  and  the  river.  His  lame  fox-terrier 
sprawled  at  his  feet,  and  a  newspaper  lay  open  on  his  knees. 
He  was  not  reading ;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  glassy  surf acfc 
of  the  stream.  A  splash,  a  momentary  vision  of  wet  silver  as  a 
trout  leapt  at  an  incautious  fly,  brought  his  head  round,  and 
then  he  saw  the  man  that  stood  surveying  him  from  the  drive. 

One  glance  he  gave,  and  then  returned  to  the  placid  contem- 
plation of  the  little  river. 

Hamon  walked  slowly  forward,  his  hands  thrust  into  his 
pockets. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it  is  a  long  time  since  I  saw  you.  I  didn't 
know  that  you  were  living  around  here." 

Jim  Morlake  raised  his  eyes  and  yawned. 

"I  should  have  sent  you  a  card,"  he  said  lazily.  "One  ought 
to  have  'at  home'  days.  If  I  had  known  you  were  coming  this 
morning,  I'd  have  hired  the  village  band  and  put  up  a  few 
flags." 

Mr.  Hamon  pulled  forward  a  chair  and  sat  down*  squarely 
before  the  other,  and  when  he  spoke,  it  was  with  the  greatest 
deliberation. 


i8  THE  BLACK 

"I'll  buy  this  house  from  you — Morlake " 

"Mister  Morlake,"  murmured  the  other.  "Let  us  remember 
that  we  are  gentlemen." 

"I'll  buy  this  house  from  you  and  you  can  go  abroad.  I'll 
forgive  your  threats  and  your  mad  fool  talk  about . . .  well,  you 
know — but  you  will  get  out  of  the  country  in  a  week." 

Morlake  laughed  softly,  and  Hamon,  who  had  never  seen 
him  laugh,  was  astounded  at  the  transformation  that  laughter 
brought  to  the  sombre  face. 

"You  are  a  most  amusing  person,"  said  the  tall  man.  "You 
drop  from  the  clouds,  or  spout  out  from  the  eternal  fires  after 
an  absence  of  years,  and  immediately  start  in  to  rearrange  my 
life !  You're  getting  fat,  Hamon,  and  those  bags  under  your 
eyes  aren't  pretty.  You  ought  to  see  a  doctor." 

Hamon  leant  forward. 

"Suppose  I  tell  your  neighbours  who  you  are!"  he  asked 
slowly.  "Suppose  I  go  to  the  police  and  tell  them  that  Mister 
Morlake" — he  laid  a  sneering  emphasis  on  the  title — "is  a 
cheap  Yankee  crook !" 

"Not  cheap,"  murmured  Morlake,  his  amused  eyes  watching 
the  other. 

"Suppose  I  tell  them  that  I  once  caught  you  red-handed 
robbing  the  Prescott  Bank,  and  that  you  blackmailed  me  into 
letting  you  go !" 

Morlake's  eyes  never  left  the  man's  face. 

"There  has  been  a  series  of  burglaries  committed  in  Lon- 
don," Hamon  went  on.  "They've  been  worked  by  a  man  called 
The  Black — ever  heard  of  him?" 

Morlake  smiled. 

"I  never  read  the  newspapers,"  he  drawled.  "There  is  so 
much  in  them  that  is  not  fit  for  a  country  gentleman  to  read." 

"A  country  gentleman !" 

It  was  Mr.  Hamon's  turn  to  be  amused.  Putting  his  hand  in 
his  pocket,  he  withdrew  a  note-case,  and,  opening  its  worn  flap, 
he  pulled  out  a  tight  wad  of  banknotes. 

"That  is  for  your  travelling  expenses,"  he  said,  as  Morlake 
took  the  money  from  his  hand.  "As  for  your  little  house  and 
estate,  I'll  make  you  an  offer  to-morrow.  Your  price " 


THE  MONKEY  AND  THE  GOURD    19 

"Is  a  hundred  thousand,"  said  Morlake.  "I'd  take  this  paltry 
sum  on  account  if  it  wasn't  for  the  fact  that  you've  got  the 
number  of  every  note  in  your  pocket-book  and  a  busy  detective 
waiting  at  the  gate  to  pull  me  as  soon  as  I  pocketed  the  swag ! 
A  hundred  thousand  is  my  price,  Hamon.  Pay  me  that,  in  the 
way  I  want  it  paid,  and  I'll  leave  you  alone.  One  hundred 
thousand  sterling  is  the  price  you  pay  for  a  month  of  quiet- 
ness !" 

He  threw  the  money  on  to  the  grass. 

"A  month — what  do  you  mean,  a  month  ?" 

Again  the  big  man  raised  his  quiet  eyes. 

"I  mean  the  month  that  elapses  in  this  country  between  trial 
and  execution,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER    V 

The  Monkey  and  the  Gourd 

RALPH  HAMON  leapt  to  his  feet  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  His 
face  was  livid,  his  thick  lips  bloodless. 

"You're  a  liar  ...  a  damned  Yankee  crook !  Hang  me  ?  Ill 
settle  with  you,  Morlake !  I  know  enough  about  you " 

Morlake  raised  a  hand  in  mock  alarm. 

"Don't  frighten  me !  My  nerves  are  not  what  they  were.  And 
be  a  sensible  man.  Tell  me  all  about  yourself.  I  hear  that  you 
cleared  half  a  million  in  Varoni  Diamonds.  Honestly  too; 
which  is  queer.  If  you  had  only  waited,  Hamon !  You  wouldn't 
be  going  about  in  fear  of  your  life.  Do  you  know  how  the 
natives  catch  monkeys  ?  They  put  a  plum  or  a  date  at  the  bottom 
of  a  narrow-necked  gourd.  And  the  monkey  puts  in  his  hand 
and  grips  the  date  but  can't  get  his  clenched  first  through  the 
narrow  neck.  He  is  too  greedy  to  loose  hold  of  the  date  and 
hasn't  the  strength  to  smash  the  gourd.  And  so  he's  caught 
You're  a  monkey  man,  Hamon !" 


to  THE  BLACK 

Hamon  had  mastered  his  rage,  but  his  face  was  deadly 
white. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said.  "You're  one  of  these 
clever  Alecs  who  like  to  hear  themselves  talk.  I've  warned  you. 
Maybe  you're  the  gourd  that  is  going  to  get  smashed." 

"That  occurred  to  me,"  nodded  the  other,  "but  I  shall  be 
broken  in  a  good  cause.  In  the  meantime,  I  shall  stay  at  Wold 
House,  rejoicing  in  my  mystery  and  in  the  interest  I  inspire  in 
the  country  bosom." 

"I'll  settle  that  mystery !"  roared  Hamon.  He  paused  at  the 
edge  of  the  gravel  path  and  raised  an  admonitory  finger.  "1 
give  you  seven  days  to  clear,"  he  said. 

"Shut  the  gate  as  you  go  out,"  said  James  Morlake,  not 
troubling  to  turn  his  head. 

Hamon  sprang  into  the  car  that  he  had  left  on  the  road  and 
drove  homeward  in  a  savage  mood ;  but  the  shocks  of  the  day 
were  not  at  an  end. 

He  had  to  follow  the  main  road  before  he  reached  the  uneven 
lane  that  bordered  the  Creith  estate.  It  was  the  Hamon  estate 
now,  he  reflected  with  satisfaction.  He  was  master  of  these 
broad  acres  and  sleepy  farms  that  nestled  in  the  folds  of  the 
downs.  But  his  mastership  was  incomplete  unless  there  went 
with  his  holding  the  slim,  straight  girl  whose  antagonism  he 
sensed,  whose  unspoken  contempt  cut  like  the  lash  of  a  whip. 

To  tame  her,  humble  her,  punish  her  for  her  insolence,  would 
be  a  sport  more  satisfying  than  any  he  had  followed  in  his 
chequered  life.  As  for  the  man  called  James  Morlake  ...  he 
winced  as  he  thought  of  that  almost  exact  counterpart  to  Joan 
Carston. 

He  had  turned  the  bonnet  of  his  car  into  the  lane  when  his 
eyes  rested  upon  the  whitewashed  cottage  behind  the  wooden 
fence,  and  he  stopped  the  machine.  He  remembered  that  a 
friend  of  Joan's  had  been  installed  here — a  woman. 

Ralph  Hamon  was  an  opportunist.  A  friend  of  Joan's  might 
become  a  friend  of  his,  and  if,  as  he  guessed,  she  was  not  too 
well  blessed  with  the  goods  of  this  world,  he  might  find  a 
subterranean  method  of  sapping  the  girl's  prejudice  against 
him. 


HAMON  TELLS  HIS  NEWS  21 

He  got  down  from  the  machine  and  walked  back  to  the  road 
and  through  the  gateway.  A  red  brick  path  flanked  by  tall 
dahlias  led  to  the  cottage  door.  He  glanced  left  and  right.  The 
occupant  was  not  in  the  garden,  and  he  knocked.  Almost  imme- 
diately the  door  opened  and  the  tall  figure  of  a  woman  con- 
fronted him. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  neither  spoke.  He  was  staring  at  her 
as  if  she  were  a  visitant  from  another  world,  and  she  met  his 
gaze  unflinchingly. 

He  tried  to  speak,  but  nothing  came  from  his  throat  but 
a  slurred  growl;  and  then,  turning  violently,  he  almost  ran 
down  the  path;  the  perspiration  rolling  down  his  face,  his 
mouth  dry  with  fear ;  for  Elsa  Cornford  had  that  half  of  his 
secret  which  the  master  of  Wold  House  did  not  guess. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Hamon  Tells  His  News 

"WASN'T  that  thunder?"  asked  Lord  Creith,  and  raised  his 
hand  to  hide  a  yawn. 

Joan  sympathised  with  his  boredom,  for  the  dinner  had 
seemed  interminable. 

"Sounds  like  it,"  said  Hamon,  rousing  himself  with  a  start 
from  an  unpleasant  reverie. 

The  three  people  had  scarcely  spoken  through  the  meal. 
Once  Lord  Creith  had  made  a  pointed  reference  to  the  dullness 
of  the  country  and  the  fun  that  a  man  of  Ralph  Hamon's 
quality  could  find  in  town,  but  the  financier  had  ignored  his 
opportunity. 

"It  is  thunder,"  said  Creith  with  satisfaction.  "October  is 
rather  late  for  storms.  I  remember  when  I  was  a  boy  .  .  ." 

He  made  a  feeble  effort  to  galvanise  the  little  party  into  an 


22  THE  BLACK 

interest  which  they  did  not  feel,  and  ended  his  reminiscence 
almost  before  it  had  begun.  And  then,  unconsciously,  he  turned 
the  conversation  to  a  channel  which  made  two  pairs  of  eyes 
turn  instantly  to  his. 

"I've  been  asking  Stephens  about  this  fellow  Morlake.  Queer 
fish — very  queer.  Nobody  knows  the  least  thing  about  him. 
He  came  from  nowhere  three  years  ago,  bought  up  Wold 
House  and  settled  himself  as  a  country  gentleman.  He  doesn't 
hunt  or  dance,  refuses  every  invitation  that  has  been  sent  to 
him,  and  apparently  has  no  friends.  A  queer  devil." 

"I  should  say  he  was !" 

Joan  heard  Mr.  Hamon's  loud  chuckle  of  laughter,  and 
looked  across  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Do  you  know  him  ?" 

Mr.  Hamon  selected  a  cigarette  from  the  box  on  the  table 
before  he  answered. 

"Yes,  I  know  him.  He  is  an  American  crook." 

"What!" 

Joan  tried  to  suppress  the  indignation  in  her  voice,  but  failed, 
and  apparently  the  man  did  not  notice  the  implied  defence  of 
the  master  of  Wold  House. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Hamon,  enjoying  the  sensation  he  had 
created,  "he's  a  crook.  What  his  real  name  is,  I  don't  know. 
He  is  one  of  the  big  men  of  the  underworld,  a  cracksman  and 
a  blackmailer !" 

"But  surely  the  police  know  all  about  him?"  said  the  amazed 
Creith. 

"They  may.  But  a  man  like  Morlake,  who  has  made  a  lot 
of  money,  would  be  able  to  keep  the  police  'straight.' " 

Joan  had  listened  speechless. 

"How  do  you  know?"  she  found  her  voice  to  demand. 
Hamon  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  had  an  encounter  with  him  a  few  years  ago.  He  thought 
that  he  had  found  something  about  me  which  gave  him  a  pull. 
He  tried  to  blackmail  me,  and  he  had  a  narrow  escape.  He  won't 
be  so  fortunate  next  time,  and  the  next  time" — he  opened  and 
closed  his  hand  suggestively — "is  near  at  hand !  I've  got  him 
like  this!" 


HAMON  TELLS  HIS  NEWS  23 

Joan  sat  stunned  by  the  news.  Why  this  revelation  should  so 
affect  her  she  could  not  explain,  even  to  herself.  She  hated 
Ralph  Hamon  at  that  moment — hated  him  with  an  intensity 
out  of  all  proportion  to  his  offence,  real  or  imaginary.  It  re- 
quired the  exercise  of  every  scrap  of  self-control  to  prevent  her 
anger  bursting  forth,  but  that  she  exercised  and  listened,  biting 
her  lip. 

"His  real  name  I  don't  know,"  Mr.  Hamon  went  on.  "The 
police  have  had  him  under  observation  for  years,  but  they  have 
never  been  able  to  collect  evidence  to  convict  him." 

"But  I  never  knew  of  this,"  interrupted  Lord  Creith,  "and 
I  am  a  magistrate.  The  county  police  invariably  speak  well  of 
him." 

"When  I  said  'police'  I  meant  headquarters,"  corrected 
Hamon.  "Anyway,  they  are  not  the  kind  of  people  who  would 
talk." 

"I  don't  believe  it !"  Joan's  pent-up  indignation  came  forth 
^n  a  rush.  "It  is  an  absurd  story !  Really,  Mr.  Hamon,  I  am 
beginning  to  suspect  you  of  reading  sensational  stories !" 

Hamon  smiled. 

"I  admit  that  it  sounds  unreal,"  he  said,  "but  there  is  the 
truth.  I  saw  the  man  this  morning." 

"Mr.  Morlake?"  asked  Joan  in  surprise,  and  he  nodded. 

"He  was  pretty  uncomfortable  when  he  saw  me,  I  can  tell 
you,  and  to  know  that  he  had  been  recognised.  He  begged  me 
;not  to  tell  anybody " 

"That  isn't  true.  Of  course,  it  isn't  true,"  said  Joan  scorn- 
fully, and  Hamon  went  a  dull  red.  "Mr.  Morlake  is  the  last 
man  in  the  world  who  would  beg  anything  from  you  or  any- 
body else.  I  don't  believe  he's  a  thief." 

"A  friend  of  yours  ?"  asked  Hamon  loudly. 

"I've  never  met  him,"  said  Joan  shortly.  "I  have  seen  him  . . . 
at  a  distance,  and  that  is  all." 

There  was  an  awkward  silence,  but  Ralph  Hamon  was 
blessed  with  a  thick  skin,  and  although  he  had  been  given  the 
lie  direct,  he  was  not  particularly  disconcerted,  not  even  when, 
attempting  to  resume  the  discussion  of  Morlake's  past,  Joan 
brusquely  turned  the  talk  into  another  direction.  When  Lord 


24  THE  BLACK 

Creith  had  gone  to  his  room,  she  walked  out  of  the  house  to 
the  lawn,  to  watch  the  lightning  flickering  in  the  southern  sky, 
and  to  think  free  of  Hamon's  stifling  presence,  but  he  followed 
her. 

"It  looks  as  though  it  will  be  a  stormy  night,"  he  said,  by 
way  of  making  conversation,  and  she  agreed,  and  was  turning 
back  to  the  house  when  he  stopped  her.  "Where  did  you  find 
that  woman  who's  living  in  the  gardener's  cottage?"  he  asked. 

She  raised  her  brows  in  astonishment.  It  was  the  last  ques- 
tion in  the  world  she  expected  from  him. 

"You  mean  Mrs.  Cornf ord  ?  Why — is  she  a  criminal  too  ?" 
she  asked. 

He  smiled  indulgently  at  the  sarcasm. 

"Not  exactly ;  only  I  am  interested.  I  have  an  idea  that  I 
met  her  years  ago.  I  suppose  she  knows  me,  doesn't  she  ?"  he 
asked  carelessly. 

"She  has  never  mentioned  your  name,  possibly  because  I 
have  never  spoken  about  you,"  she  said,  a  little  surprised  and 
her  curiosity  piqued. 

"I  seem  to  remember  that  she  was  a  little  wrong  in  the  head. 
She  was  in  a  lunatic  asylum  for  twelve  months." 

The  girl  was  surprised  into  laughing. 

•  "Really,  Mr.  Hamon,"  she  said  dryly,  "I  begin  to  suspect  you 
of  trying  to  frighten  me.  Such  of  my  friends  as  aren't  criminals 
must  be  lunatics !" 

"I  didn't  know  he  was  a  friend  of  yours,"  said  Hamon 
quickly. 

He  went  toward  her  in  the  darkness. 

"I  have  already  told  you  that  Mr.  Morlake  is  not  a  friend. 
He's  a  neighbour,  and  neighbours,  by  our  convention,  are 
friends  until  we  discover  they  are  otherwise.  Shall  we  go  in  ?" 

"One  moment." 

He  caught  her  by  the  arm,  and  gently  she  freed  herself. 

"That  isn't  necessary,  Mr.  Hamon.  What  do  you  want  to 
tell  me?" 

"Has  your  father  spoken  to  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"My  father  frequently  speaks  to  me,"  said  the  girl.  "Do  you 
mean  about  you  ?" 


HAMON  TELLS  HIS  NEWS  25 

He  nodded. 

"About  your  wanting  to  marry  me  ?" 

"That's  it,"  he  said  a  little  huskily. 

"Yes,  he  did  speak  about  it  to  me,"  said  Joan  steadily,  "and 
I  told  him  that,  whilst  I  was  very  sensible  of  the  compliment 
you  paid  me,  I  have  no  desire  to  marry  you." 

Hamon  cleared  his  voice. 

"Did  he  also  mention  the  fact  that  I  am  virtually  the  owner 
of  Creith?" 

"He  also  mentioned  that,"  said  the  girl  bravely. 

"I  suppose  Creith  is  very  dear  to  you  ?  Your  ancestors  have 
had  it  for  hundreds  of  years  ?" 

"Very  dear,  indeed,"  said  Joan,  stifling  her  anger,  "but  not 
so  dear  that  I  am  prepared  to  sacrifice  my  life's  happiness  to 
retain  the  title  of  mistress  of  Creith.  There  are  worse  things 
than  being  homeless,  Mr.  Hamon." 

She  made  a  move  to  go,  but  again  he  restrained  her. 

"Wait,"  he  said.  His  voice  was  low  and  vibrant.  "Joan,  I  am 
twenty  years  older  tban  you,  but  you're  the  sort  of  woman 
I  have  dreamt  about  since  I  was  a  boy.  There  isn't  a  thing  I 
wouldn't  do  for  you,  there  isn't  a  service  I  wouldn't  render 
you.  I  want  you!" 

Before  she  realised  what  he  was  doing  he  had  caught  her 
in  his  arms.  She  struggled  to  escape,  but  he  held  her  in  a  grip 
that  could  not  be  broken. 

"Let  me  go — how  dare  you !" 

"Listen !"  He  almost  hissed  the  word.  "I  love  you,  Joan !  I 
love  you,  although  you  hurt  me  with  your  damned  contempt. 
I  love  your  face,  your  eyes,  your  dear,  slim  body.  . . ." 

She  twisted  her  head  aside  to  avoid  his  greedy  lips.  And 
then,  from  the  hallway,  she  heard,  with  a  gasp  of  relief,  the 
voice  of  her  father  calling : 

"Where  are  you,  Joan  ?" 

Hamon's  arms  dropped,  and  she  staggered  back,  breathless 
and  shaken,  horror  and  disgust  in  her  soul. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  muttered. 

She  could  not  speak ;  she  could  only  point  to  the  door,  and  he 


26  THE  BLACK 

went  in.  She  herself  did  not  follow  for  some  minutes,  and 
Lord  Creith  peered  at  her  short-sightedly. 

"Anything  wrong?"  he  asked,  as  he  saw  her  pale  face. 

"Nothing,  Daddy." 

He  looked  round.  Hamon  had  disappeared  through  the  open 
door  of  the  drawing-room. 

"A  primitive  fellow.  I'll  kick  him  out  if  you  say  the  word,  my 
dear." 

Again  she  shook  her  head. 

"It's  not  necessary.  Yes,  he  is  a  little  primitive.  If  he  doesn't 
go  to-morrow,  will  you  take  me  to  London  ?" 

"I'm  going  to  London  anyway,"  said  his  lordship  with  satis- 
faction. "Do  you  wish  me  to  talk  to  Hamon?"  he  asked  an- 
xiously. 

"It  isn't  necessary,"  said  Joan,  and  Lord  Creith  went  back 
to  his  study  relieved,  for  he  hated  any  kind  of  bother. 


CHAPTER    VII 

Into  the  Storm 

SHE  went  straight  up  to  her  room,  resolved  not  to  risk  a  further 
interview  with  the  man  in  whose  eyes,  even  in  the  failing  light, 
she  had  read  the  very  deeps  of  human  passion.  She  felt  physi- 
cally sick  as  she  recalled  those  horrible  seconds  on  the  lawn,  and 
she  searched  the  drawer  of  her  bureau  for  the  key  of  the  bed- 
room door,  and,  finding  it,  turned  the  lock — a  thing  she  had 
never  done  before  in  her  life.  Then  she  sat  down  before  her 
mirror,  calmly  to  review  a  disturbing  evening. 

Predominant  of  the  emotions  which  the  night  had  called 
forth  was  the  shock  of  the  discovery  about  James  Morlake.  It 
could  not  be  true ;  and  yet  Hamon  would  not  have  framed 
such  an  accusation  unless  it  was  well  based. 

She  got  uptfrom  her  chair,  opened  one  of  the  long  windows 
iu?d  stepped  out  on  to  the  stone  balcony  above  the  porch.  The 


INTO  THE  STORM  27 

lightning  was  flickering  whitely  in  the  sky ;  there  came  to  her 
ears  the  low  roll  and  sustained  rumble  of  thunder ;  but  it  was 
not  at  the  sable  skies  she  was  looking.  Across  the  park  one 
faint  yellow  light  showed  the  position  of  Wold  House. 

If  all  that  Hamon  said  were  true,  did  this  strangely  isolated 
man  know  that  he  was  suspected?  Ought  he  to  be  told?  She 
uttered  a  little  exclamation  of  impatience.  It  was  madness  on 
her  part,  sheer,  stark  lunacy  to  think  about  him.  She  knew  him 
only  as  a  figure  that  had  often  come  within  the  focus  of  her 
field-glasses,  a  remarkable,  an  attractive  face  around  which  she 
had  woven  all  manner  of  dreams.  Nearer  at  hand,  she  would 
be  disillusioned;  and  just  at  that  moment  she  particularly  de- 
sired that,  even  though  she  hated  Hamon  for  sowing  the  first 
seeds  of  disenchantment. 

She  had  never  spoken  to  Morlake,  never  been  within  fifty 
yards  of  him,  knew  no  more  than  servants'  gossip  could  tell 
her,  or  than  she  could  imagine  for  herself.  If  Hamon  had 
spoken  the  truth,  then  he  was  in  danger.  If  it  were  not  true, 
then,  for  his  own  purpose,  the  financier  was  hatching  some 
plot  which  would  lead  to  Morlake's  undoing. 

She  came  back  to  the  room  and  stared  at  herself  in  the  mir- 
ror. 

"I  must  be  disillusioned,"  she  said  slowly  and  deliberately, 
and  knew,  as  she  spoke,  that  she  was  deceiving  herself. 

She  went  to  her  bureau,  took  out  a  long  raincoat  and  a  little 
hat,  and  laid  them  on  her  bed. 

Creith  House  retired  early,  but  it  was  not  till  half -past  ten 
that  she  heard  the  front  door  being  locked  by  Stephens,  and 
the  surly  voice  of  Mr.  Hamon  bid  the  servant  good-night  as 
he  came  up  the  stairs  on  the  way  to  his  own  room.  She  listened 
and  heard  the  thud  of  Hamon's  bedroom  door  as  it  closed.  A 
quarter-of-an-hour  passed  and  the  house  was  silent. 

Once  more  she  returned  to  the  balcony.  The  light  was  burn- 
ing at  Wold  House,  and  she  made  her  sudden  resolve.  With  the 
coat  over  her  arm,  and  holding  her  hat  in  her  hand,  she  un- 
locked the  door  and  stole  fearfully  down  the  broad  stairway 
to  the  hall,  where  a  night-light  burnt.  Stephens  had  retired ; 
she  could  hear  only  the  ticking  of  the  big  clock  in  the  hall. 


28  THE  BLACK 

The  key  of  the  front  door  hung  on  the  wall,  a  big  and  un- 
gainly article,  and  she  put  this  into  her  bag  before  she  pulled 
back  the  bolts  gently,  unlocked  the  door  and  closed  it  behind 
her. 

There  would  be  no  difficulty  in  finding  her  way.  The  light- 
ning snickered  and  flashed  almost  incessantly.  With  a  wildly 
beating  heart  she  passed  down  the  drive  under  the  shadow  of 
the  rustling  chestnut  trees,  through  the  lodge  gates  on  to  the 
main  road. 

She  was  being  a  fool,  a  sentimental  idiot . . .  she  was  behav- 
ing like  a  romantic  school-girl.  Reason  put  out  a  hundred  hands 
to  hold  her  back.  Something  which  was  neither  reason  nor 
sentiment,  some  great  instinct  more  potent  than  any  controlling 
force  of  mind  or  heart,  sent  her  forward  eagerly  to  her  strange 
quest. 

Once  she  shrank  into  the  shelter  of  a  hedge  as  a  car  flashed 
past,  and  she  wondered  what  the  neighbours  would  think  if 
they  had  seen  Lady  Joan  Carston  hiding  from  observation 
at  that  hour  of  the  night.  At  any  rate,  they  would  never  dream 
that  she  was  on  her  way  to  warn  an  American  crook  whom  she 
did  not  know,  and  had  never  met,  that  his  arrest  was  imminent. 
She  reflected  on  this  with  a  certain  amount  of  grim  amuse- 
ment. 

Presently  she  was  walking  in  the  shelter  of  the  high  red- 
brick wall  that  surrounded  Wold  House.  The  wrought-iron 
gates  were  closed,  and  she  had  to  fumble  for  some  time  before 
she  found  the  latch  that  admitted  her.  The  light  she  had  seen 
had  disappeared;  the  house  was  in  darkness,  and  she  stood 
in  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  trying  to  summon  up  sufficient  courage 
to  go  on  with  her  self-appointed  mission. 

She  had  taken  a  step  forward  when  unexpectedly  the  door 
of  the  house  opened.  A  bright  light  glowed  in  the  passage,  and 
in  its  rays  she  saw  silhouetted  in  the  doorway  the  figure  of  a 
man,  and  she  drew  back  again  to  the  cover  of  the  shadow.  Be- 
hind the  man  she  saw  James  Morlake.  He  was  talking  in  a  low 
toice,  and,  even  from  where  she  stood,  she  felt  a  little  thrill  of 
satisfaction  that  it  was  the  voice  of  a  gentleman. 


INTO  THE  STORM  29 

But  who  was  the  other?  In  some  indefinite  way  the  figure 
was  strangely  familiar  to  Joan.  And  then : 

"Feeling  better  now  ?" 

"Yes,  thanks."  She  had  to  guess  what  the  mumbled  reply  was. 

"You  will  find  the  cottage  on  the  road.  I  don't  know  Mrs. 
Cornford,  but  I  believe  there  is  a  lady  staying  there." 

"Awfully  foolish  of  me  to  come  here,  but  I  went  to  the  sta- 
tion bar  .  .  .  and  time  passed  .  .  .  and  then  this  beastly  storm 
came  on.  I'm  afraid  I'm  rather  drunk." 

"I'm  afraid  you  are,"  said  Jim  Morlake's  voice. 

Mrs.  Corn  ford's  lodger !  The  dipsomaniac.  They  came  down 
the  steps  together,  the  younger  man  reeling  a  little  till  Jim  put 
out  his  hand  and  steadied  him. 

"Awfully  obliged  to  you,  I'm  sure — my  name  is  Farring- 
don — Ferdie  Farringdon.  .  .  ." 

And  then  a  flicker  of  lightning  showed  his  face,  white,  hag- 
gard, unshaven.  The  girl  shrank  back,  wild-eyed,  biting  her 
lip  to  arrest  her  scream.  Gripping  a  bough  of  the  laurel  bush 
to  hold  herself  erect,  she  watched  them  pass  into  the  gloom. 
She  was  still  standing  motionless,  frozen,  when  Jim  returned 
alone. 

She  watched  him  go  into  the  house,  saw  the  door  close,  and 
still  she  waited.  Great  drops  of  rain  were  splashing  down; 
the  thunder  was  louder,  the  lightning  more  vivid. 

She  had  no  longer  any  thought  of  warning  him.  She  was 
absorbed,  transfixed  by  the  ghost  that  had  risen  from  the  night. 
With  an  effort  she  stirred  herself  and  ran  down  the  drive. 

She  tried  to  open  the  gate,  but  to  her  horror  it  was  stead- 
fast. Morlake  must  have  locked  it  after  he  had  seen  the  other 
on  his  way.  What  should  she  do? 

She  moved  stealthily  across  the  lawn,  but  here  the  river 
barred  her  further  movement.  She  could  get  over  the  wall  if 
she  knew  where  a  ladder  was  to  be  found. 

And  then  the  front  door  opened  again  and  she  drew  swiftly 
into  the  shadows  as  somebody  came  out.  It  was  Morlake :  she 
could  not  mistake  him.  He  walked  quickly  down  the  path,  and 
she  heard  the  clang  of  the  gate  as  it  closed  behind  him.  As  soon 


30  THE  BLACK 

as  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  had  died  down,  she  ran  to  the 
gate — it  was  unlocked,  and,  with  a  sigh  of  thankfulness,  she 
passed  through. 

Which  way  had  he  gone,  she  wondered.  Probably  toward 
the  village.  It  was  hardly  likely  that  any  business  would  take 
him  in  the  direction  of  Creith  House,  unless  he  was  going  to 
the  cottage  to  make  sure  that  Farringdon  had  returned. 

She  had  not  gone  a  dozen  yards  before  she  was  wet  through, 
for  the  rain  was  hissing  down  with  torrential  fury.  The  roar 
and  crash  of  thunder  deafened  her,  the  everlasting  flutter  of 
blue  lightning  brought  intervals  of  blindness  between  each 
flash.  Up  to  this  moment  she  had  not  been  afraid,  but  now  the 
terror  of  the  storm  came  on  her  and  she  broke  into  a  run,  and 
at  last  came  in  sight  of  the  lodge  gates.  She  felt  in  her  sodden 
bag  for  the  key — Yes,  it  was  there. 

Quickly  she  passed  up  the  avenue  and  had  reached  the  end, 
when  she  stopped  dead,  her  eyes  wide  open  in  fear.  Ahead  of 
her,  not  a  dozen  yards  away,  the  lightning  revealed  the  figure 
of  a  man  in  black,  standing  motionless  and  in  her  path.  She 
could  not  see  the  face  under  the  brim  of  the  wide  sombrero  he 
wore. 

"Who  are  you  ?"  she  asked  shakily. 

Before  he  could  reply,  there  was  a  blinding  burst  of  flame, 
a  crash  as  though  giant  hands  had  torn  a  sheet  of  steel  apart ; 
something  lifted  her  from  her  feet  and  flung  her  violently  to 
the  earth. 

The  man  in  the  path  stood  paralysed  for  a  second,  then,  with 
a  cry,  he  leapt  forward,  and,  lifting  the  prostrate  figure, 
dragged  her  from  the  burning  tree.  A  light  had  appeared  in 
one  of  the  windows  of  Creith  House,  another  followed.  The 
household  was  awake,  and  the  blazing  chestnut  would  bring 
them  into  the  open. 

He  looked  round  and  saw  a  clump  of  rhododendrons,  and 
lifting  the  unconscious  girl  he  carried  her  into  the  shadow  of 
the  cover  just  as  the  butler  came  out  of  the  house  to  the  porch. 

Who  she  was  the  stranger  did  not  know.  Possibly  some  be- 
lated servant  returning  from  the  village.  He  did  not  trouble  to 
examine  his  burden,  and  might  have  been  no  wiser  if  he  had, 


THE  ROBBER  31 

for  Joan's  face  was  smeared  with  the  soft  loam  mud  into  which 
she  had  mercifully  fallen. 

Evidently  nobody  intended  coming  out  to  fight  the  flames. 
He  heard  a  voice  from  one  of  the  windows  demanding  that 
the  fire  brigade  be  sent  for. 

"  'Phone,  my  dear  man,  'phone !  And  don't  bother  me  till 
the  beastly  fire  is  out." 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  Joan  recovered  consciousness. 
She  opened  her  eyes  and  stared  wildly  round.  Somebody  was 
supporting  her  head  on  his  knee.  Her  face  was  wet  with  fall- 
ing rain ;  above  her  were  the  swaying  branches  of  bushes.  How 
did  she  get  there  ? 

"I  think  you'll  be  O.  K.  now,"  said  a  voice,  strangely  muffled. 

She  stared  up  at  him,  recognising  instantly  the  voice  of 
James  Morlake. 

"*H£hat  has  happened?"  she  asked,  and  then  she  smelt  the 
pungent  perfume  of  burnt  wood  and  shivered. 

The  tree  under  which  she  had  stood  had  been  struck,  and  by 
some  miracle  she  had  escaped. 

"Thank  you  ever  so  much "  she  began,  and  at  that  mo- 
ment the  lawn  was  made  radiant  with  a  sustained  glare  of 
lightning. 

She  was  looking  into  a  face  that  was  covered  from  brow  to 
chin  with  a  black  silk  mask ! 


CHAPTER   VIII 
The  Robber 

"!T  is  true — true !"  she  grasped,  and  he  heard  the  pain  in  her 
voice  and  peered  down. 

"What  is  true  ? — please  don't  shout  or  they  will  hear  you." 

Trembling  helplessly,  she  tried  to  regain  control  of  her  voice. 

"You  are  a  burglar!"  she  said,  and  heard  his  smothered 
exclamation. 

"You  mean  .  .  .  the  mask?  I'm  afraid  you  saw  it.  One  mask 


32  THE  BLACK 

doesn't  make  a  burglar,  you  know,  any  more  than  one  swallow 
makes  a  summer !  On  a  wet  night  like  this  a  man  who  wishes 
to  keep  that  school-girl  complexion  would  naturally  pro- 
tect  " 

"Please  don't  be  absurd !" 

She  realised,  so  keen  was  her  sense  of  humour,  that  the  dig- 
nity of  her  tone  did  not  exactly  accord  with  her  own  deplor- 
able situation.  She  was  lying  uncomfortably  on  wet  grass,  her 
face.  .  .  .  She  hoped  he  could  not  see  her  face,  and  furtively 
wiped  some  of  the  mud  away  with  the  slimy  corner  of  her 
raincoat,  which,  for  some  extraordinary  reason,  she  had  carried 
over  her  arm  through  the  storm. 

"Will  you  help  me  up,  please  ?" 

For  answer  he  stooped  and  lifted  her  to  her  feet  without  any 
apparent  effort. 

"Are  you  staying  at  the  Hall  ?"  he  asked,  and  there  was  some- 
thing so  formal  and  so  suggestive  of  polite  small  talk  about 
the  question  that  her  lips  trembled. 

"Yes — I  am.  Are  you  .  .  .  were  you  thinking  of  burgling 
the  Hall?" 

She  felt  rather  than  heard  him  laugh. 

"You  won't  believe  that  I  am  not  a  burglar " 

"Are  you?" 

There  was  a  challenge  in  the  voice. 

"Really,"  said  James  Morlake  after  a  while,  "this  situation 
is  verging  on  the  grotesque.  .  . ." 

"Are  you?"  she  asked  again,  and  as  she  expected,  so  he 
replied. 

"I  am." 

She  would  have  been  bitterly  disappointed  if  he  had  said 
anything  else.  A  burglar  he  might  be,  a  liar  he  could  not  be. 

"Well,  we've  nothing  to  burgle,  Mr "  She  stopped  sud- 
denly. Did  he  know  that  she  had  recognised  him? 

"Mr. ?"  he  suggested.  "You  said  just  now  'It  is  true' 

• — meaning  it  was  true  that  I  am  a  burglar.  Were  you  expecting 
a  visitation  to-night?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  having  none  of  his  scruples.  "Mr.  Hamon 
said  that  we  might  be  robbed." 


THE  ROBBER  33 

It  was  the  lamest  of  inventions,  but  the  effect  upon  the  man 
was  unexpected. 

"Oh!  You're  a  visitor  at  the  Hall.  I  beg  your  pardon,  I 
thought  you  were  ...  er  ...  well,  I  didn't  exactly  know  what 
you  were — would  you  mind  looking  straight  at  the  house?" 

"Why?" 

"Please " 

She  obeyed  naturally  and  turned  her  back  on  him.  Some- 
body was  coming  out  to  the  smouldering  tree.  A  storm  lantern 
was  swaying  and  the  gait  of  the  newcomer  suggested  a  reluc- 
tance to  investigate  at  close  hand  the  phenomena  of  nature. 

"It  is  Peters,"  she  said,  and  looked  round. 

She  was  alone ;  the  masked  man  was  gone. 

It  was  easy  to  avoid  Peters,  but  as  she  reached  the  corridor 
leading  to  her  room,  she  suddenly  confronted  her  father. 

"Good  God !  Joan  . . .  where  on  earth  have  you  been  . . .  you 
gave  me  a  fright." 

"I  went  out  to  see  the  tree,"  she  said  (she  had  never  lied  so 
easily  in  her  life). 

"What  the  deuce  do  you  want  to  go  out  into  the  beastly  rain 
to  see  trees  for  ?"  grumbled  Lord  Creith.  "Let  Peters  see  it ! 
Your  face  is  all  muddy.  .  .  ." 

She  bolted  into  her  room  as  the  door  of  Hamon's  chamber 
opened  and  his  pyjamaed  figure  showed. 

"Something  struck?"  asked  Hamon. 

Lord  Creith  turned  his  head. 

"One  of  your  trees,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  said  with  satisfac- 
tion. "By  Jove !  I  only  just  realised  that  it  wasn't  my  tree !" 

And,  consoled  by  the  knowledge  that  there  really  was  noth- 
ing to  justify  any  personal  worry,  his  lordship  went  back  to 
bed,  undisturbed  by  the  cannon  of  the  heavens  or  the  lightning 
which  lit  up  his  room  at  irregular  intervals. 

Joan's  was  the  only  room  in  Creith  Hall  that  possessed  the 
luxury  of  an  adjoining  bathroom,  and  she  was  sufficiently  femi- 
nine, as  she  stripped  off  her  wet  clothes,  to  be  absorbed  for  the 
moment  in  the  thoroughness  of  her  soaking  to  the  partial  exclu- 
sion of  all  thoughts  of  her  adventure. 

She  came  back  to  the  problem  of  Mr.  Morlake  as  she  sat 


34  THE  BLACK 

in  bed  nursing  her  knees  and  watching  through  the  open  win- 
dow the  passage  of  the  storm.  The  chestnut  tree  was  smoking 
and  the  lightning  gave  her  a  glimpse  of  two  brass-helmetted 
men  gazing  impotently  at  the  ruin.  The  village  fire  brigade 
was,  in  point  of  costume,  an  exact  replica  of  its  great  metro- 
politan model.  It  was  only  on  the  minor  point  of  efficiency  that 
it  fell  short. 

Had  Morlake  recognised  her  ?  It  was  very  doubtful.  She  had 
never  met  him,  and  she  guessed  that  he  was  so  incurious  as  to 
the  identities  of  the  people  of  Creith  House  that  he  was  genu- 
ine when  he  mistook  her  for  a  visitor.  Who  did  he  think  she 
was  ?  A  servant,  perhaps. 

"Now  I  think  you  are  thoroughly  and  completely  disillu- 
sioned, Joan  Carston,"  she  said  soberly.  "Your  wonder-man  is 
a  burglar !  And  you  can  only  be  interested  in  burglars  if  your 
mind  is  morbid  and  unwholesome  and  your  outlook  is  hope- 
lessly decadent.  Let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you,  young  woman !  Con- 
centrate upon  the  normalities  of  life." 

So  saying,  she  got  out  of  bed,  and,  craning  her  neck,  looked 
across  the  park  toward  Wold  House.  The  tiny  light  was  burn- 
ing. Mr.  Morlake  had  returned  home. 

Sighing  thankfully,  she  returned  to  bed,  and  she  was  sleep- 
ing soundly  when  James  Morlake  stepped  from  the  conceal- 
ment of  the  rhododendrons  and,  crossing  the  lawn,  slipped  the 
edge  of  a  small  jemmy  under  the  bottom  of  a  window  that 
looked  into  the  dark  entrance  hall. 


CHAPTER    IX 

Mr.  Hamon  Loses  Money 

JOAN  came  down  early,  intending  to  breakfast  before  Mr. 
Hamon  was  up.  She  had  nearly  finished  her  healthy  repast 
when  Hamon  burst  into  the  room,  and  he  was  not  pretty  to 
see.  He  wore  his  socks,  a  pair  of  trousers  from  which  the  braces 


MR.  HAMON  LOSES  MONEY  35 

were  hanging,  and  a  vividly  striped  pyjama  coat.  His  unshaven 
face  was  dark  with  anger  as  he  glared  round. 

"Where's  Stephens?"  he  roared,  and  then,  realising  that 
neither  his  tone  nor  appearance  was  in  harmony  with  the  re- 
quirements of  good  breeding,  he  said  in  a  more  subdued  voice : 
"Excuse  me,  Lady  Joan,  but  I've  been  robbed." 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  was  looking  at  him,  wide- 
eyed. 

"Has  somebody  stolen  your  shoes  and  coat  ?"  she  asked,  and 
he  flushed. 

"I  only  just  discovered  it — the  robbery,  I  mean.  Somebody 
broke  into  my  room  last  night  and  took  a  wallet  with  three 
thousand  pounds !  It  was  that  dog  Morlake.  I'll  fix  him !  I've 
given  the  swine  his  chance " 

"It  is  a  pity  that  the  robber  did  not  also  steal  your  vocabu- 
lary, Mr.  Hamon,"  said  the  girl  coldly. 

She  was  far  from  feeling  the  indifference  she  displayed. 
Then  Morlake  had  come  back  after  all !  She  felt  a  sense  of 
grievance  against  him — he  had  deceived  her.  She  examined 
her  mind,  after  the  spluttering  Hamon  had  disappeared,  in 
search  of  a  more  sympathetic  audience,  for  some  intelligent 
reason  for  her  grievance.  The  deception  lay  in  the  light  which 
showed  in  the  window  of  Wold  House,  she  decided,  though 
James  Morlake  might  not  have  been  responsible  for  its  appear- 
ance. From  the  confusing  evidence  offered  by  the  victim,  by 
Peters,  and  reflected  by  Lord  Creith,  it  appeared  that,  at  some 
hour  in  the  early  morning,  a  person  unknown  had  forced  an 
entrance  through  one  of  the  windows  which  flanked  the  hall 
door ;  that  he  had  entered  at  least  two  rooms  (Joan  gasped  as 
the  possibility  flashed  across  her  mind  that  hers  might  have 
been  one,  and  was  unaccountably  piqued  to  learn  that  the  sec- 
ond room  was  an  empty  room  next  to  Mr.  Hamon's) ;  that  he 
had  taken,  from  underneath  the  pillow  which  supported  the 
unconscious  head  of  Ralph  Hamon,  a  leather  wallet  containing 
between  £3,000  and  £4,000  in  banknotes,  and  added  the  indig- 
nity of  unloading  the  revolver  which  lay  on  a  table  by  the  side 
of  Mr.  Hamon's  bed;  the  cartridges  were  discovered  in  the 
grounds. 


36  THE  BLACK 

"My  dear  good  man,"  said  Lord  Creith,  visibly  bored  by 
the  fourth  recital  of  Ralph  Hamon's  loss,  "it  is  a  simple  matter 
to  convey  to  the  bovine  constabulary  which  is  at  present  tramp- 
ing over  my  flower  beds  that  you  suspect  this  Morlake  person. 
As  a  magistrate,  I  shall  be  happy  to  issue  a  warrant  for  his 
arrest,  or,  what  is  more  important,  the  search  of  his  house.  If 
he  has  stolen  your  money,  it  will  be  discovered  in  his  posses- 
sion." 

"I  don't  want  to  do  that,"  said  Hamon,  sourly.  "There  is 
no  proof  other  than  my  word." 

"But  I  thought  you  said  that  the  police  had  him  under  obser- 
vation?" Joan  ventured  to  say,  though  at  the  thought  that 
she  was  assisting  in  the  arrest  of  her  burglar  she  went  hot  and 
cold. 

"Not  exactly  under  observation,"  admitted  Hamon;  "but 
there  are  men  who  know  about  him — men  at  headquarters,  I 
mean.  My  friend,  Inspector  Marborne,  has  been  shadowing 
him  for  years.  No,  I'm  not  going  to  hand  the  case  over  to  the 
local  police — they'd  only  bungle  it.  Besides,  a  man  of  Mor- 
lake's  character  is  too  clever  to  have  the  stuff  in  the  house.  I'll 
go  over  and  talk  to  him." 

He  looked  savagely  across  at  the  girl  as  the  sound  of  her 
soft  laughter  came  to  him. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said  apologetically,  "but  it  does  sound 
silly,  doesn't  it,  for  the  robbed  to  argue  with  the  robber?  I 
know  such  things  happen  in  books,  but  you  don't  seriously 
mean  that  you  will  go  to  him  and  tell  him  you  suspect  him  ?" 

"I  think  all  this  talk  about  our  neighbour  is  romantic  non- 
sense," said  Lord  Creith,  energising  himself  to  take  an  inter- 
est in  the  matter.  "The  whole  thing  is  so  simple :  if  he's  a  bur- 
glar, and  you  know  he's  a  burglar,  have  him  arrested.  If  he 
doesn't  happen  to  be  a  burglar,  but  is  an  innocent  country  gen- 
tleman, as  we  are  all  agreed  he  seems  to  be,  then,  of  course, 
you're  liable  to  very  severe  damages  in  any  action  at  law  which 
he  may  bring.  Anyway,  it  was  foolish  of  you  to  carry  so  much 
money  about  with  you,  my  dear  man !  Three  thousand  pounds ! 
Great  heavens !  What  are  banks  for  ?"  he  looked  at  his  watch. 
"I  am  going  up  to  town  in  half-an-hour.  I  won't  offer  you  a 


MR.  HAMON  LOSES  MONEY  37 

lift,  because  my  machine  can  only  hold  two  people  comfortably 
in  ordinary  circumstances  and  one  person,  uncomfortably, 
when  Joan  is  travelling.  My  dear,  will  you  try  to  keep  your 
baggage  down  to  half-a-dozen  trunks  and  as  few  hat-boxes  as 
possible  ?" 

"You're  going  to  town?"  said  the  other,  disappointed.  "I 
thought  you  were  staying  for  the  rest  of  the  week." 

"I  told  you  on  Monday  I  was  going  to  town,"  said  his  lord- 
ship, who  had  done  nothing  of  the  sort.  "There  is  a  sale  at 
Tatter  sail's  to-morrow  which  I  must  attend ;  and  Joan  has  an 
appointment  with  her  dentist.  You  may  stay  on  if  you  wish ; 
don't  let  me  interefere  with  your  plans." 

"When  will  you  be  back  ?"  asked  Hamon. 

"In  about  a  month,"  said  Lore  Creith. 

Ralph  Hamon  decided  that  he  also  would  go  to  the  me- 
tropolis, and  hinted  that  his  own  car  was  big  enough  to  take 
the  whole  party.  The  hint  was  neither  seen  nor  heeded. 

"That's  over,"  said  Lord  Creith,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  as  the 
car  turned  out  of  the  lodge  gates  to  the  post  road.  "Hamon  is 
a  very  admirable  person,  but  he's  inclined  to  get  on  one's 
nerves." 

He  screwed  an  eyeglass  in  his  eye  as  they  approached  Wold 
House. 

"That  is  the  home  of  our  maligned  neighbour,  isn't  it,  Joan? 
Never  seen  the  fellow :  what  is  he  like  ?" 

"Oh,  just  an  ordinary,  inoffensive-looking  man,"  said  Joan 
lamely. 

"Is  he  now  ?"  said  his  lordship,  interested.  "That  is  very  sus- 
picious. I  never  like  inoffensive-looking  men." 

At  that  moment  the  chauffeur  jammed  on  his  brakes.  A  car 
was  coming  out  through  the  gates  of  Wold  House,  a  long, 
black  machine,  the  sole  occupant  of  which  was  Mr.  James  Mor- 
lake.  Glancing  over  his  shoulder,  he  saw  the  danger  and  brought 
his  machine  perilously  close  to  the  ditch  on  his  left  as  Lord 
Creith's  car  shot  past. 

"Narrow  squeak,  that,"  said  his  lordship  comfortably.  "Our 
man  was,  of  course,  in  the  wrong:  he  should  have  sounded 
his  horn.  So  that  is  Mr.  Morlake,  eh  ?  I  don't  agree  with  youf 


38  THE  BLACK 

description,  my  dear.  A  more  offensive-looking  person  I  have 
never  seen.  From  the  scowl  on  his  face  he  might  have  been  a 
murderer." 

"I  was  talking  of  him  as  a  man,"  said  Joan  calmly,  "not 
as  a  motorist." 

A  savage  howl  from  a  siren  behind  brought  the  Creith  car 
to  the  near  side  of  the  road,  and  the  snaky  black  machine  shot 
past  them,  its  driver  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left. 

Joan  knew  the  type  of  car:  it  was  a  high-powered  Italian 
machine,  and  one  of  tht  costliest  in  Europe.  Evidently  Mr. 
James  Morlake  spared  no  expense  in  the  pursuit  of  his  nefari- 
ous calling. 


CHAPTER   X 

The  Frame-up 

DIVISIONAL  INSPECTOR  MARBORNE  came  from  his  chief's 
office,  closed  the  door  behind  him  gently,  and  was  whistling  to 
himself  as  he  walked  down  the  stone  stairs  of  police  head- 
quarters. Even  his  friend  and  associate,  a  detective  sergeant 
of  many  years'  standing,  was  deceived. 

He  followed  his  superior  into  the  street,  and  in  the  compara- 
tive quietude  of  the  Thames  Embankment,  asked  eagerly  : 

"Was  it  O.K.?" 

"It  was  not  O.  K.,"  said  the  other  carefully.  "It  was  as  near 
O.  K.  as  makes  no  difference.  In  fact,  Barney,  the  Pure  Po- 
lice movement  has  spread  so  thoroughly  that  I  was  as  near  to 
being  asked  to  turn  in  my  coat  as  ever  I've  been.  The  old  man 
said  that  he  had  proof  that  I'd  been  taking  'quieteners'  from 
Bolson's  gambling  house  in  Upper  Gloucester  Place,  and  gave 
me  the  number  of  the  notes  that  Big  Bennett  paid  me  for  tip- 
ping off  his  brother  that  he  was  going  to  be  'pulled  in.'  I'm 
booked  for  retirement,  and  so  are  you — the  old  man  said  he 
knew  that  you  were  in  it." 


THE  FRAME-UP  39 

Sergeant  Barney  Slone  winced,  for  he  had  tastes  which 
would  make  living  on  a  pension  a  painful  proceeding. 

"There  is  one  chance,  and  only  one,  and  I'm  going  to  take 
it,"  said  the  inspector.  "I  hate  depending  upon  men  like  Lieber 
and  Colley,  but  they  are  our  long  suits.  Bring  them  up  to  my 
apartment  for  a  bit  of  dinner  to-night." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"I'm  going  to  get  The  Black,"  said  Inspector  Marborne, 
and  his  subordinate  stopped  in  his  walk  and  stared  at  him. 

"Get  him — how?"  he  asked  incredulously. 

But  the  inspector  was  not  prepared  to  explain. 

"I  know  him — at  least,  I  think  I  know  him — if  I  don't,  a 
friend  of  mine  does.  It  will  be  the  biggest  thing  I've  ever  done, 
Barney." 

For  more  than  five  years  The  Black,  so  called  because  he 
wore  clothing  of  funereal  hue,  had  been  the  bugbear  of  Lon- 
don. No  strong  room  was  invulnerable  to  the  attack  of  this 
skilful  and  single-handed  burglar.  Banks  and  safe  deposits 
toad  been  the  sole  objects  of  his  attention — a  fact  which  had 
added  considerably  to  the  difficulties  of  the  police. 

Curiously  enough,  the  extent  of  The  Black's  depredations 
was  never  known.  His  hobby  was  to  rifle  private  boxes  and 
safes  where  respectable  men  hid  up  the  items  that  would  seri- 
ously challenge  their  respectability  if  they  were  dragged  to  the 
light  of  day.  Some  men  hid  money  that  way,  forgoing  the  inter- 
est that  might  accrue  for  the  sake  of  having  at  hand  a  nest  egg 
against  a  stormy  day  when  their  worst  fears  were  realised. 
Naturally,  these  were  vague  about  their  losses,  often  denying 
that  they  had  lost  anything  of  value.  The  Black  was  obviously 
a  student  of  human  nature,  and  robbed  well,  and  it  was  a  fact 
that,  in  the  course  of  five  years,  though  twenty-three  burglaries 
stood  to  his  discredit,  there  was  no  definite  charge  of  stealing 
a  definite  sum  which  might  pass  the  scrutiny  of  a  Grand  Jury. 

At  five  o'clock  that  afternoon,  Mr.  Marborne  called  at  307 
Grosvenor  Place,  where  Ralph  Hamon  had  his  London  resi- 
dence. Marborne  was  a  type  of  policeman  to  be  found  in  every 
city  of  the  civilised  world.  Graft  is  not  the  canker  of  any  par- 
ticular police  force :  it  is  a  disease  which  makes  its  appearance, 


40  THE  BLACK 

and  will  continue  to  appear,  wherever  lowly  and  unscrupulous 
men  rise  to  positions  of  authority.  Wherever  easy  money  is 
available,  there  will  be  found  men  ready  and  willing  to  take 
the  tempting  prizes  of  dishonesty  without  any  thought  of  their 
responsibilities  or  their  treachery  to  the  causes  they  represent. 

Hamon  was  writing  letters  when  the  detective  was  shown 
into  the  drawing-room.  He  rose  and  greeted  the  visitor  effu- 
sively. 

"Come  right  in,  Marborne.  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  You  got 
my  letter  ?" 

"Yes,  I  had  it  this  morning,"  said  Marborne,  depositing  his 
hat  on  the  floor  and  seating  himself  carefully.  "Three  thousand 
pounds  you  lost,  eh  ?  I  suppose  you've  got  the  numbers  of  the 
notes?" 

"Yes,  I  have  the  numbers,  but  that  won't  worry  him.  You 
know  how  easy  it  is  to  pass  stolen  money ;  and  when  you're 
dealing  with  an  expert  like  The  Black,  I  don't  think  it's  worth 
while  building  any  hope  of  catching  him  through  the 
notes." 

Further  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  the 
servant  with  a  large  silver  tray  and  the  refreshment  which 
was  essential  to  Marborne's  comfort. 

"You're  sure  it  was  The  Black  ?"  asked  the  detective,  when 
his  host  had  carefully  closed  and  locked  the  door  behind  the 
servant. 

"Certain." 

"Why  didn't  you  report  it  to  the  local  police  ?"  asked  Mar- 
borne  curiously.  "It  would  have  been  a  simple  matter  to  have 
got  a  search-warrant — you  were  staying  with  Lord  Creith, 
and  he's  Chairman  of  the  Quarter  Sessions." 

Hamon  shook  his  head. 

"That  isn't  the  way.  I  had  no  evidence  but  my  suspicion. 
You  don't  suppose  for  one  minute  that  we  should  have  found 
the  stuff  in  Morlake's  house,  do  you?  No,  that  course  was 
suggested  by  Lord  Creith  himself,  but  I  didn't  proceed  with 
it,  because" — he  leant  forward,  and  lowered  his  voice — "that 
would  have  spoilt  the  scheme  I  spoke  to  you  about  a  month 
ago." 


THE  FRAME-UP  4* 

The  detective  pursed  his  lips  dubiously. 

"It's  going  to  be  a  pretty  hard  job  to  frame  up  a  charge,  and 
it'll  cost  you  a  bit  of  money,  Mr.  Hamon.  I  have  been  thinking 
it  out,  and  though  I  know  the  very  men  for  the  work,  it  will 
mean  spending  money  freely." 

"Spend  to  the  limit,"  said  Hamon  violently,  "but  get  him ! 
He's  in  London — I  suppose  you  know  that?" 

The  detective  nodded. 

"Yes,  I've  'tailed  him  up'  as  far  as  it's  possible.  I've  got  a 
friend  of  mine,  Sergeant  Slone,  on  the  job,  but  it  hasn't  been 
easy.  Our  code  doesn't  allow  a  man  to  be  'tailed'  unless  an 
official  report  has  been  made  against  him  to  the  police,  and  I've 
had  to  get  Slone  to  work  in  his  spare  time." 

"Any  work  done  for  me  will  be  paid  for,"  said  Hamon 
a  little  impatiently.  "Have  you  got  the  scheme  worked  out?" 

The  inspector  nodded. 

"There  is  a  house  on  Blackheath,"  he  said,  "owned  by  a  re- 
tired Colonial  officer.  He  is  a  rich  man,  and  has  a  wonderful 
collection  of  antique  jewellery.  There  are  only  his  wife,  his 
daughter  and  three  servants  in  the 'house,  and  I've  got  a  man 
who  could  crack  it  in  about  five  minutes.  It  wouldn't  be  so  easy 
to  get  the  jewellery,  because  that  is  kept  in  a  safe,  but  there's 
no  need  to  worry  about  touching  the  stuff.  The  thing  is  to 
get  him  to  the  house,  and  to  leave  enough  evidence  to  catch 
your  man.  The  real  difficulty  is  going  to  be  to  break  down  any 
alibi  that  he  may  have.  It  is  useless  pulling  him  in  for  a  bur- 
glary at  Blackheath  if  he  can  prove  that  at  the  time  he  was 
in  his  club." 

"Can  you  bring  him  to  Blackheath  by  any  means  ?"  asked  the 
interested  Mr.  Hamon. 

The  detective  nodded. 

"That  is  what  I'm  working  for,"  he  said,  "but  it  will  require 
a  whole  lot  of  manoeuvring.  Morlake  lives  in  a  sort  of  Oriental 
flat  in  Bond  Street  and  has  two  servants — a  Moor  named  Ma- 
hmet — he's  travelling  a  lot  in  Morocco — and  a  'valet  named 
Binger,  who  is  a  pensioner  of  the  I4th  Hussars.  Binger  doesn't 
live  on  the  premises :  he  lives  with  his  wife  and  family  in  the 
Blackheath  Road — that's  why  I  chose  Blackheath.  Usually, 


42  THE  BLACK 

when  Morlake's  in  town,  Binger  comes  down  to  Blackheath  by 
one  of  the  all-night  cars  that  run  on  the  southern  route.  Ser- 
geant Slone  has  become  friendly  with  Binger,  who  doesn't 
know,  of  course,  that  Slone  is  a  police  officer.  Every  attempt 
he  has  made  to  get  Binger  to  talk  about  his  boss  has  been  use- 
less so  far.  I'm  perfectly  sure  he  knows  a  lot  more  about  Mor- 
lake  than  he  tells.  But  he's  as  dumb  as  an  oyster  the  moment 
the  conversation  turns  round  to  James  Morlake." 

"How  is  this  going  to  help  you  ?"  asked  Hamon. 

"It's  going  to  help  me  a  lot,"  said  the  inspector  deliberately. 
"Morlake  is  fond  of  this  man,  and  when  he  was  ill,  about  two 
years  ago,  he  used  to  go  down  every  day  in  his  car  to  Black- 
heath  Road  and  bring  him  fruit  and  books,  and  had  his  own 
doctor  attending  him.  Sometimes  Binger  comes  home  early, 
and  the  next  night  this  happens  we'll  work  the  frame-up. 
Can  you  get  anything  of  Morlake's — a  handkerchief,  a  pocket- 
book ?" 

Hamon  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said  shortly.  "I  have  never  been  into  his  house." 

"That  is  unfortunate,  but  it  isn't  absolutely  necessary.  I'll 
have  his  initials  engraved  on  a  pocket-knife — it's  easier  to 
prove  that  you  own  an  article  than  it  is  to  prove  you  never 
owned  it !  It'll  cost  a  bit — as  I  say,  it's  going  to  be  a  costly 
business." 

Mr.  Hamon  took  his  note-case  out,  and  passed  across  the 
table  a  sum  considerably  in  excess  of  Marborne's  wildest  an- 
ticipations. 

With  this  money  in  his  pocket,  and  a  corresponding  sense 
of  elation  in  his  soul,  the  detective  strolled  out  to  join  the  wait- 
ing Slone.  He  had  reason  for  gratification,  since  the  plan,  if 
successful,  would  not  only  make  him  a  comparatively  rich  man 
(supposing  Hamon  kept  his  promise),  but  would  wipe  out 
the  memory  of  a  number  of  very  ugly  incidents  that  had  dis- 
figured his  official  career,  and  would  inevitably  qualify  him 
for  promotion  if  "The  Black"  were  convicted. 

Slone  was  waiting  for  him  on  the  corner  of  the  street. 

"Did  he  drop?"  he  asked,  and  Inspector  Marborne  frowned. 

"I  wish  you'd  get  out  of  that  vulgar  way  of  talking,  Slone," 


THE  FRAME-UP  43 

fie  said  severely.  "My  friend  gave  me  a  little  money  for  ex- 
penses, but  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  he's  the  Bank  of 
England.  I've  got  a  hundred  for  you  on  account,  which  I'll 
give  you  when  we  get  to  my  flat.  You  told  Colley  to  be  there  ?" 

"He's  been  waiting  all  the  afternoon,"  said  Slone.  "Lieber 
hasn't  turned  up — but  he's  slow,  being  Dutch.  What  is  the  big 
idea?" 

"You'll  hear  about  it,"  said  the  other  cryptically. 

Colley  proved  to  be  an  undersized,  wizened  man  whose  face 
had  been  not  the  least  of  his  misfortunes.  For,  to  the  evidence 
which  had  been  produced  against  him  from  time  to  time  in 
various  courts  of  law,  there  was  added  the  unflattering  testi- 
mony of  a  face  in  which  "criminal"  was  written  so  unmistak- 
ably that  the  most  sentimental  of  jury- women  was  ready  to 
convict  him  before  the  evidence  was  through. 

He  was  waiting  on  the  pavement  opposite  the  detective's 
lodgings,  and  followed  the  two  men  through  the  door.  In  Mr. 
Marborne's  snug  sitting-room  he  took  the  cigar  that  was 
Dffered  him  with  an  ingratiating  smile. 

"The  sergeant  said  you  wanted  to  see  me,  Mr.  Marborne," 
he  said.  "I  got  a  bit  of  a  fright  at  first,  because  I  thought  you 
wanted  me  for  that  Mill  Hill  job.  If  I  never  move  out  of  this 
room  alive,  I'm  as  innocent " 

"Shut  up  about  the  Mill  Hill  job.  I  know  who  did  it,"  said 
Marborne.  "I've  got  some  work  for  you,  Colley." 

The  face  of  the  thief  fell. 

"I  don't  mean  honest  work,"  said  the  detective,  "so  don't  get 
alarmed !  Now  listen  to  this,  and  listen  very  carefully.  There's 
a  friend  of  mine  who  wants  to  have  a  little  joke  with  some- 
body. You  needn't  worry  about  the  joke  being  on  you,  because 
it  won't  be." 

He  explained  carefully  in  detail  just  what  was  required  of 
Colley,  and  as  he  listened,  the  man,  who  at  first  was  alarmed, 
began  to  see  daylight. 

"You  want  me  to  get  in  and  get  out  again  quick :  is  that  it?" 

"Not  too  quick,"  corrected  Marborne.  "I  shall  want  you  to 
make  a  bit  of  a  fuss.  Let  'em  see  you,  you  understand  ?" 

Colley  pulled  a  wry  face. 


44  THE  BLACK 

"If  this  fellow's  a  Colonial,  maybe  he's  got  a  gun,  and  if  he 
sees  me  before  I  see  him,  there'll  be  some  one-sided  shooting. 
It's  a  fine  joke,  Mr.  Marborne,  but  it  don't  amuse  me  as  mud" 
as  a  good  Chaplin  film." 

It  took  an  hour  of  solid  talking  to  persuade  Colley  that  the 
danger  was  negligible  and  the  reward  so  munificent  that  he 
need  not  work  again  for  a  year.  In  the  end  he  was  persuaded, 
and  it  was  arranged  that  he  should  be  within  call  for  the  next 
week.  When  the  interview  was  over,  Mr.  Marborne  went  forth 
to  what  he  knew  would  be  the  most  difficult  of  his  tasks,  and 
with  him  went  a  Mr.  Lieber,  a  belated  arrival  on  the  scene. 

"I  may  not  want  you,  Lieber,  but  you  can  wait  around  in  case 
I  do.  You  know  Morlake?" 

Mr.  Lieber,  who  was  stout,  shook  his  head,  for  he  needed  all 
his  breath  to  keep  pace  with  the  long-striding  detective. 

"You  can't  mistake  him,  and  anyway,  I'll  be  with  you  to 
point  him  out." 

"Is  he  a  crook  ?"  wheezed  Lieber. 

"He's  a  crook,  and  I  want  an  identification — the  same  as 
you  got  for  me  in  the  Crewe  case.  A  handkerchief,  a  pocket- 
book,  papers — anything.  But  I  may  not  need  you.  Here  we  are 
— wait  on  the  corner  and  follow  me  when  I  come  out." 

Binger  opened  the  door  to  the  caller  and  eyed  him  suspi- 
ciously, for,  although  Marborne  was  unknown  to  the  valet, 
there  was  a  something  "official"  in  his  manner  which  the  old 
soldier  instantly  recognised. 

"I  don't  know  whether  Mr.  Morlake  is  hin  or  whether  he's 
hout,"  he  said.  "If  you  wait  a  bit  I'll  see." 

He  closed  the  door  in  his  visitor's  face  and  went  into  the  big 
Oriental  room  where  James  Morlake  was  reading. 

"He  says  his  name  is  Kelly,  sir,  and  maybe  it  his  and  maybe 
it  hain't." 

"What  did  he  say  his  business  was  ?"  asked  Morlake,  closing 
his  book. 

"He  said  he'd  met  you  in  Morocco  some  years  ago,  and  had 
only  just  found  your  address." 

"Show  him  in,  will  you?"  said  James  Morlake.  after  a  mo- 


THE  FRAME-UP  45 

ment's  thought,  and  Mr.  Marborne,  strolling  into  the  big  room, 
took  in  its  beauty  with  an  admiring  glance. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Kelly.  I  have  no  chairs,  because  I  have  no 
visitors — perhaps  you  will  sit  on  the  divan." 

Marborne  seated  himself  with  a  little  smirk. 

"It  is  a  long  time  since  I  met  you,  Mr.  Morlake.  I  suppose 
you  don't  remember  me  dining  at  your  table  at  the  Cecil,  in 
Tangier,  some  ten  years  ago  ?" 

"I  have  a  dim  recollection,"  said  Morlake,  eyeing  his  visitor 
carelessly. 

"I  was  travelling  for  a  hardware  firm,"  said  Marborne  glibly, 
and  all  the  time  he  was  speaking  he  was  casting  his  eyes  around, 
trying  to  find  some  little  article  by  which  his  man  might  be 
identified  on  some  future  and  vital  occasion.  "I  don't  know 
whether  you  trouble  to  keep  chance  acquaintances  in  your  mind, 
but  I  have  a  very  pleasant  recollection  of  our  meeting." 

"I  remember  you  now,"  said  Jim  Morlake;  "though  you 
have  altered  a  little  since  I  saw  you  last." 

Mr.  Marborne  looked  up  at  the  carved  ceiling. 

"Beautiful  bit  of  work  there;  they  couldn't  do  it  in  this 
country,  or  any  other,"  he  said.  "You've  got  a  lovely  place. 
Nobody  would  imagine,  walking  on  Bond  Street,  that  there 
was  a  real  Moorish  room  within  half-a-dozen  paces." 

He  had  found  what  he  needed :  it  lay  in  the  shadow  at  the 
back  of  the  stationery  rack — a  small  leather  folder  on  which 
he  could  see,  even  at  that  distance,  three  initials.  It  was  too 
small  for  a  pocket-book,  and  he  guessed  it  to  be  a  little  stamp 
case  until,  nearer  at  hand,  he  saw  that  it  held  a  clip  of  flat 
matches. 

Rising  from  the  divan,  he  strolled  across  the  room  until  he 
stood  opposite  the  watchful  man,  his  hands  resting  on  the  desk. 
Presently : 

"I  have  no  business  whatever  to  interrupt  a  busy  person  like 
you,"  he  said,  "but  I  thought,  as  I  was  in  London  for  a  day, 
I'd  give  you  a  call.  It  was  not  inconvenient,  I  hope?" 

His  fingers  had  touched  the  match  case  and  closed  over  it.  To 
slip  the  little  leather  folder  into  his  pocket  was  unnecessary :  it 
\vas  so  small  that  he  could  palm  it. 


46  THE  BLACK 

"I'm  always  glad  to  see  my  old  Moroccan  friends,"  said  Jim. 
"Won't  you  have  a  drink,  Mr.  Kelly  ?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Kelly.  "I  won't  occupy  any  more  of 
your  time.  I  was  told  that  you  didn't  live  in  town — that  you  had 
a  house  somewhere  in  Sussex." 

"Yes,  I  have  a  house  in  Sussex,"  said  Jim  quietly. 

By  this  time  the  match  case  was  in  the  detective's  pocket. 

"If  you're  ever  in  Liverpool,  look  me  up — John  L.  Kelly," 
said  Marborne,  as  he  put  out  his  hand.  "You'll  find  me  in  the 
telephone  directory — 943  Lime  Street.  I'm  very  glad  indeed 
to  have  met  you  again,  Mr.  Morlake." 

Jim  took  the  hand  and  watched  his  visitor  as  he  strolled 
towards  the  curtained  hallway. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  he  said,  as  the  man  reached  the  curtain, 
"you  might  be  good  enough  to  leave  my  matches  behind — I 
may  want  them. 

Marborne  stared  and  started. 

"Your — your  matches?"  he  stammered. 

"Yes,  they're  in  your  right-hand  trousers  pocket,  Inspector," 
said  Jim,  hardly  looking  up  from  the  book  he  had  opened. 

"I  have  no  matches,"  said  Marborne  loudly. 

"Then  you  have  used  them,  and  I  will  take  the  case,"  said 
Jim.  "And,  Inspector,  if  you  give  me  any  trouble,  I  shall  call 
up  headquarters  and  tell  your  chief  something  about  the  gen- 
tleman who  runs  a  receiver's  business  in  Marylebone  Lane. 
You  get  a  rake-off  of  ten  per  cent.,  I  am  told — I  am  sure  the 
excellent  Commissioner  does  not  know  that." 

Marborne's  face  twitched  and  he  changed  colour.  He  opened 
his  mouth  to  speak,  but  thought  better  of  it,  then,  taking  the 
case  from  his  pocket,  he  flung  it  on  the  ground. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Jim  gently. 

The  man's  face  was  dark  with  rage,  as,  stung  by  the  cool 
contempt  of  the  other,  he  turned. 

"I'll  get  you  one  of  these  days,  Morlake,"  he  quavered  in  his 
fury.  "You'll  not  get  away  with  it  all  the  time !" 

"And  you  won't  get  away  with  my  matches  any  time,"  said 
Jim,  and,  to  Binger,  who  had  appeared  in  the  opening  between 


JANE  SMITH  47 

the  curtains :  "Show  this  gentleman  out,  and  see  that  he  doesn't 
take  my  umbrella  from  the  hall-stand." 


CHAPTER   XI 

Jane  Smith 

WHEN  the  door  had  closed  upon  the  infuriated  policeman,  Bin- 
ger  hastened  back  to  his  employer. 

"That  man  was  a  detective,"  he  whispered  hoarsely. 

"I  know  that,"  said  Jim,  stifling  a  yawn.  "He  stole  my 
matches — what  other  proof  was  needed,  Binger?" 

"What  did  he  come  here  for,  sir  ?"  asked  Binger  in  agitation. 

"To  find  out  all  about  me,  and  apparently  to  get  a  light  for  his 
cigar.  He  knows  all  he'll  ever  know.  Don't  worry  your  head 
about  him,  Binger." 

"Them  fellows  are  as  hartful  as  monkeys,"  said  the  valet. 

"Hartfuller,"  agreed  Jim,  "but  not  much.  A  monkey  isn't 
clever  at  all :  get  that  into  your  nut,  Binger.  He's  the  most 
stupid  of  all  the  lower  animals." 

"Are  you  going  out  to-night,  sir  ?"  after  a  pause. 

"No,  I'm  staying  in  to-night.  You  may  go  home  early  to  your 
wife  and  family — I  suppose  you  have  a  family  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I've  two  boys  in  the  Harmy,"  said  Binger  proudly. 

Jim  Morlake  nodded. 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  want  you  for  anything  more.  Tell  Mah- 
met  to  bring  me  coffee :  I  shall  be  working  late  to-night." 

When  the  man  had  gone,  he  laid  down  his  book  and  began 
slowly  to  pace  the  big  room,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  a 
far-away  look  in  his  eyes  and  a  frown  upon  his  handsome  face. 
He  heard  the  thud  of  the  door  as  Binger  went  home,  and  a  few 
seconds  later  the  little  Moorish  servant  came  in,  bearing  a  tray 
with  the  paraphernalia  for  coffee-making. 

Jim  watched  him  idly,  and  when  the  man's  task  was  finished 
and  he  had  salaamed  his  way  out  of  the  room,  he  walked  to  the 
divan,  and  stooping,  lifted  the  top  that  came  up  like  the  lid  of 


48  THE  BLACK 

a  box.  In  the  cavity  beneath  was  a  small  steel  safe  lying  on  its 
back.  He  fitted  a  key  in  the  lock  and,  pulling  up  the  door,  took 
out  a  large  bundle  of  banknotes.  For  half  an  hour  he  was  sort- 
ing them  into  their  various  denominations.  When  he  had  fin- 
ished, he  counted  the  bundles  carefully,  enclosed  them  in  vari- 
ous envelopes,  on  each  of  which  he  wrote  a  different  name  and 
address,  which  he  took  from  a  pocket  diary  which  he  carried 
in  his  waistcoat  pocket.  This  done,  he  replaced  all  the  envelopes 
in  the  safe,  closed  and  locked  it  and  replaced  the  "lid"  of  the 
divan. 

He  looked  at  his  watch :  it  was  half-past  eleven.  He  did  not 
feel  tired ;  the  book  he  had  been  reading  was  very  dull,  yet  no 
outside  amusement  attracted  him. 

He  sat  down  again  to  consider  the  problem  of  Marborne's 
visit.  Marborne,  in  his  simplicity,  had  imagined  that  he  was 
unknown,  but  in  truth  there  was  not  a  detective  holding  any 
rank  in  the  headquarters  police  whose  face  James  Morlake  did 
not  know. 

Why  had  he  come  ?  Why  had  he  been  guilty  of  so  paltry  a 
theft?  Jim  had  not  seen  the  matches  go,  but  he  had  known 
they  were  on  the  desk  and  when  the  detective  had  walked  to 
the  table  he  had  observed  the  palming.  What  was  the  object,  he 
wondered — he  could  supply  half-a-dozen  solutions,  none  of 
which  was  wholly  convincing  to  himself. 

He  got  up  and  passed  through  a  narrow  arched  doorway 
into  a  smaller  room,  furnished  with  a  bed  and  a  wardrobe.  He 
would  go  out,  he  decided,  and  changed  his  shoes.  He  was  open- 
ing the  door  of  the  flat  when  he  saw  a  letter  on  the  floor.  It  had 
evidently  been  pushed  through  the  slot,  and,  picking  it  up,  he 
saw  that  it  had  been  delivered  by  hand.  It  was  addressed  in  pen- 
cilled writ'ng  to  "Mr.  Morelake,"  and  it  was  marked  "Urgent." 

Tearing  open  the  envelope,  he  read  the  few  scrawled  lines 
it  contained,  and  reading,  he  frowned.  Presently  he  folded  the 
letter,  put  it  back  in  its  envelope  and  slipped  it  into  his  pocket. 

"Mahmet,  did  you  hear  anybody  outside?"  he  asked  when 
the  servant  had  come  in  response  to  his  signal. 

"No,  effendi — not  since  the  secretary  went.  I  was  in  the  hall 
then." 


JANE  SMITH  49 

Morlake  took  the  letter  from  his  pocket. 

"This  was  not  here  when  you  let  Binger  out  ?" 

"No — there  was  nothing." 

The  letter  must  have  been  delivered  while  he  was  changing 
his  shoes. 

Restoring  the  scrawled  warning  to  his  pocket,  he  went  out 
on  the  stone  landing.  His  flat  was  the  only  residential  apart- 
ment in  the  building,  the  lower  floors  being  offices,  the  ground 
floor  a  couturiere's  establishment.  Usually  at  this  hour  of  the 
night  the  caretaker,  the  only  other  person  in  the  building  at 
night,  was  to  be  found  smoking  in  the  small  entrance  hall,  but 
to-night  he  was  absent. 

As  Morlake  came  into  the  street,  Inspector  Marborne,  stand- 
ing in  the  shadow  of  a  door,  tapped  his  companion  on  the 
shoulder. 

"There's  your  man,  Lieber,"  he  said. 

The  pickpocket  nodded  and  walked  across  the  road,  follow- 
ing the  tall  man,  who  was  moving  at  a  leisurely  pace  toward 
Piccadilly.  As  he  reached  the  corner,  Morlake  stopped  and 
looked  left  and  right  irresolutely  as  though  he  were  undecided 
which  way  he  should  go.  At  that  moment  a  stout  little  man, 
walking  rapidly,  came  into  violent  collision  with  him. 

"Steady,  my  friend,"  said  James  Morlake,  recovering  from 
the  shock. 

"Excuse  me,"  mumbled  the  little  man,  and  went  on  his  way 
at  the  same  furious  rate,  Jim  Morlake  looking  after  him  with 
a  glint  of  amusement  in  his  eyes. 

Inspector  Marborne  was  waiting  for  the  thief  at  the  corner 
of  Air  Street,  and  as  the  little  man  turned  into  that  deserted 
thoroughfare,  Marbone  fell  in  at  his  side. 

"Well  ?"  he  demanded. 

"I  got  something,"  said  Lieber,  putting  his  hand  in  liis 
pocket.  "There's  no  handkerchief  or  case  in  his  pocket,  but  I 
got  a  letter." 

Impatiently  the  inspector  tore  it  from  his  hand  and,  halting 
beneath  a  street  standard,  examined  the  prize. 

"It  is  addressed  to  him  all  right,"  he  said.  "Now,  Mr.  Mor- 
lake, I  think  I've  got  you." 


So  THE  BLACK 

He  pulled  out  the  letter  and  read  it.  Lieber  watching  him, 
•aw  his  mouth  open  in  horrified  amazement . 

Dear  Mr.  Morlake  [the  message  ran],  Ralph  Hamon  em- 
ploys a  police  officer  named  Marborne,  who  is  laying  a  trap  for 
you. 

It  was  signed  "Jane  Smith." 

"Who  the  devil  is  Jane  Smith  ?"  gasped  Marborne. 

This  was  the  identical  question  that  James  Morlake  was 
asking  himself  at  that  moment. 


CHAPTER   XII 
Miss  Lydia  Hamon 

THE  detective  turned  from  his  examination  of  the  letter  to 
glower  at  his  companion. 

"You're  a  fine  thief,  Lieber !"  he  snarled.  "Is  this  all  you 
could  get  ?" 

Lieber's  puffy  face  fell. 

"Ain't  it  enough,  Mr.  Marborne?"  he  asked,  aggrieved. 
"You  said  'Get  a  letter,'  and  I  got  it." 

"You  got  it  all  right,"  said  the  other  grimly.  "Oh,  yes,  you 
got  it!" 

He  stuffed  the  letter  into  his  pocket  and  left  his  gaping  agent 
staring  after  him. 

Little  things  amuse,  but  they  also  distress  little  minds.  The 
discovery  that  his  association  with  Hamon  was  known  to 
"Jane  Smith"  worried  him  horribly — it  worried  him  more  be- 
cause he  was  so  deeply  committed  to  the  plot  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  go  back.  The  scheme  must  be  carried  through,  but 
first  he  must  make  sure  of  his  ground.  He  hailed  a  taxi  and 
drove  to  Grosvenor  Place.  The  servant  who  admitted  him,  and 
who  knew  him,  said  that  Mr.  Hamon  was  out. 

"Will  you  see  Miss  Hamon  ?"  asked  the  man. 


MISS  LYDIA  HAMON  51 

"Miss  Hamon? — I  didn't  know  there  was  a  Miss  Hamon," 
said  Marborne  in  surprise. 

The  butler  might  have  explained  that  the  visits  of  Miss 
Hamon  to  London  were  few  and  far  between,  and  he  could 
have  supplemented  the  information  that,  rare  as  they  were, 
the  household  of  307  Grosvenor  Place  would  have  been  de- 
lighted if  they  were  even  rarer.  For  Lydia  Hamon  was  that 
type  of  young  woman  (and  the  type  was  not  exclusively 
confined  to  the  young)  who,  having  risen  to  affluence  from 
the  borderland  of  poverty,  lived  in  a  state  of  perpetual  fear 
that  their  superiority  to  the  rest  of  the  world  was  not  being  duly 
recognised. 

"Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Hamon  has  a  sister — she  lives  in  Paris." 

Lydia  certainly  lived  in  Paris.  She  had  a  small  apartment 
on  the  Bois  and  a  very  highly-polished  coupe  that  was  driven 
by  a  Japanese  chauffeur  in  a  rose-red  livery.  She  studied  art 
in  a  genteel  way,  knew  many  old  Royalist  families  and  spoke 
French  to  her  own  satisfaction. 

Leaving  Marborne  in  the  hall,  the  servant  went  into  the 
drawing-room,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  It  was  a  little  time 
before  he  reappeared  to  beckon  the  visitor  forward. 

Lydia  Hamon  was  pretty  and  thin.  Her  hair,  a  dull  red,  was 
bobbed  in  the  French  manner  and  bound  by  a  filet  of  bronze- 
coloured  ribbon.  Her  arms,  otherwise  bare,  were  encircled 
by  bracelets  that  flashed  and  glittered  in  the  light  of  shaded 
wall  brackets.  She  turned  her  dark  eyes  languidly  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  detective  as  he  entered,  and  the  thin  eyebrows  arched 
inquiringly.  Otherwise,  she  made  no  attempt  to  greet  the  vis- 
itor, nor  did  she  rise  from  the  couch  on  which  she  was  lying. 

Marborne,  a  susceptible  man,  was  struck  dumb  by  what  he 
regarded  as  her  unearthly  beauty.  The  green  evening  gown,  the 
dull  gold  of  dainty  shoes  and  silken  stockings,  the  delicate 
hands  that  shaded  her  eyes  as  though  his  coming  had  intro- 
duced a  new  brilliancy  into  the  room,  were  all  parts  of  the 
charm  which. momentarily  overwhelmed  him. 

"You  want  to  see  my  brother?"  she  drawled  (she  actually 
said  "brothah,"  and  the  gentility  of  the  intonation  took  his 
brtathaway). 


5*  THE  BLACK 

"Yes,  miss,  I  have  a  little  business  with  him." 

She  looked  at  the  diamond-studded  watch  on  her  wrist. 

"He  will  be  back  very  soon,"  she  said.  "I  know  nothing 
about  business,  so  I'm  afraid  I  can't  help  you.  Won't  you  sit 
down,  Mr.  Marlow?" 

"Marborne,"  murmured  the  detective,  seating  himself  gin- 
gerly on  the  edge  of  a  chair.  "I  haven't  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  you  before,  Miss  Hamon." 

She  inclined  her  head,  signifying  her  regret  that  this  pleas- 
ure had  not  been  his. 

"I  live  mostly  abroad,  in  my  dear  Paris,"  she  said.  "Life 
there  is  so  different,  so  real !  London,  with  its  commercialism 
and  absence  of  soul,  frightens  me." 

Inspector  Marborne,  who  was  not  a  classy  talker,  felt  it  was 
a  moment  to  suggest  that  the  efficiency  of  the  London  police 
force  was  such  that  nobody  need  be  frightened,  but  happily, 
before  she  could  lead  him  again  out  of  his  depth,  Hamon 
came  in. 

"Hullo,  Marborne!"  he  said  anxiously.  "What  is  wrong?" 
He  glanced  at  the  reclining  figure  on  the  sofa.  "You've  met 
my  sister?  Lydia,  this  is  Mr.  Marborne,  a  friend  of  mine  and 
an  officer  of  the  Metropolitan  Police." 

"Really?"  She  raised  her  eyebrows  again,  but,  to  Mar- 
borne's  disappointment,  did  not  seem  particularly  impressed. 

"We'll  go  up  to  my  den,"  said  Hamon,  and  he  hustled  the 
detective  from  the  room  before  the  impressionable  Marborne 
could  begin  taking  leave. 

Behind  the  closed  doors  of  Hamon's  room,  the  inspector  told 
his  story. 

"Let  me  see  the  letter,"  said  Hamon. 

He  studied  it  under  the  light  of  the  table  lamp,  his  lips 
pursed,  his  eyebrows  gathered  in  a  frown. 

"Jane  Smith  ?  Who  the  dickens  is  Jane  Smith  ?"  he  muttered. 

"Is  there  anybody  who  knows  about — about  this  matter?" 
asked  Marborne. 

"Nobody.  I  mentioned  it  to  my  sister,  but  to  no  other  soul." 

At  first  astonished,  Marborne  was  a  little  perturbed. 


MISS  LYDIA  HAMON  53 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  mentioned  it  to  anybody,  Mr.  Hamon," 
he  said. 

"I  haven't,"  said  the  other  impatiently.  "I  did  no  more  than 
tell  Lydia  that  I'd  got  a  scheme  for  settling  with  Morlake.  One 
thing  I'll  swear — that  the  writing  isn't  Lydia's,  and  anyway, 
she  doesn't  know  the  man,  and  would  not  write  to  him  if  she 
did.  Is  this  all  you've  got  ?" 

"It  is  all  that  is  necessary,"  said  Marborne  airily.  "I've  got 
the  scheme  so  well  fixed  that  it  isn't  necessary  we  should  have 
anything  of  Morlake's.  The  envelope  will  be  found — any  clue 
that  leads  us  to  Morlake  is  sufficient." 

He  did  not  tell  of  the  visit  he  had  paid,  feeling  that  it  was 
hardly  the  moment  to  confess  a  fresh  failure. 

"When  are  you  going  to  do  the  job?"  asked  Hamon. 

Marborne  shrugged. 

"It  depends  entirely  upon  circumstances.  I  hope  to  fix  it 
this  week,"  he  said.  "You  need  have  no  fear.  I  can  get  enough 
evidence  to  convict  him,  and  once  he's  pinched,  it  will  be  easy 
to  search  his  flat  and  his  house  in  Sussex.  Why  didn't  you  have 
him  arrested  in  the  country  ?  It  would  have  been  an  easy  matter 
to  have  got  a  search-warrant " 

"Don't  ask  dam'  fool  questions,"  said  the  other  impatiently. 
"Let  me  know  when  you're  taking  him,  and  I'll  be  on  hand  to 
furnish  the  etceteras." 

When  the  detective  had  gone,  Hamon  went  down  to  his 
sister. 

"Who  is  that  man  ?"  she  asked,  yawning  undisguisedly.  "You 
always  seem  to  have  such  queer  people  at  your  house,  Ralph." 

"Why  did  you  come  over  ?"  he  asked. 

"Because  I'm  short  of  money.  I've  bought  the  loveliest  little 
statuette — a  genuine  Demetri ;  and  I've  been  losing  a  terrible 
lot  at  cards.  One  must  keep  one's  end  up,  Ralph." 

He  looked  at  her  without  speaking. 

"Besides,  I've  promised  to  spend  a  week-end  with  dear  Lady 
Darlew.  She  has  an  awfully  nice  boy  at  Eton " 

"Now  listen  to  me,  Lydia,"  interrupted  Hamon.  "When  I 
started  making  money,  you  were  serving  in  a  West  End  bar, 


54  THE  BLACK 

earning  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  together,  and  I'd  like 
you  to  remember  that  fact.  I'm  not  made  of  money,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  increase  your  allowance.  You  forget  these  friends 
of  yours  who  have  sons  at  Eton,  and  remember  that  you  were 
serving  bad  drinks  at  Lembo's  Dive."  He  saw  the  fury  in  her 
eyes,  but  went  on. 

"The  time  is  rapidly  approaching  when  you  are  going  to 
earn  your  keep,  my  girl." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked.  She  was  no  longer  thft 
languid  child  of  fashion,  but  stood  before  him,  her  hands  on 
her  hips,  her  voice  harsh  with  anger.  "Do  you  expect  me  to  go 
back  serving  drinks  whilst  you're  making  tens  of  thousands? 
I've  helped  you,  Ralph,  and  don't  forget  it !  You  haven't  for- 
gotten Johnny  Cornford,  I  hope,  and  what  I  did  for  you 
there?" 

His  face  went  a  shade  paler. 

"You  needn't  talk  about  Johnny  Cornford  or  anybody  else," 
he  said  roughly ;  "and  don't  go  up  in  the  air,  because  I'm  talk- 
ing to  you  for  your  good.  I  shall  want  your  help,  I  tell  you. 
Marborne's  got  a  big  idea  of  catching  Morlake,  and  if  we  can't 
catch  him  one  way  he's  got  to  be  caught  another,  and  you've  got 
to  do  it." 

"Oh,  I  have,  have  I  ?"  she  sneered.  "And  what  do  I  get  for 
it  ?  The  same  as  I  got  out  of  the  Cornford  business — nothing !" 

"I  got  nothing,  either,"  he  said  quickly. 

"That  is  a  lie !  Oh,  you  needn't  scowl  at  me,  Ralph :  I'm  not 
afraid  of  you !  I  heard  that  tale  about  Cornford  before.  Noth- 
ing!" 

"I  got  nothing,  I  tell  you,"  he  said  loudly.  "It  was  the  biggest 
disappointment  I  ever  had.  If  the  luck  hadn't  run  for  me,  I'd 
have  been  down  and  out.  I  never  had  a  penny  of  Cornford's 
money." 

There  was  a  brief  but  ominous  silence,  and  then  she  asked : 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  this  Morlake?  Is  he  to  be  jollied 
along  ?  Has  he  any  money  ?" 

"Stacks  of  it,"  said  the  other  tersely,  "but  it  isn't  his  money 
I  want." 

She  raised  her  thin  eyebrows. 


AT  BLACKHEATH  55 

"You  must  be  pretty  well  off  not  to  worry  about  his  money," 
she  said,  and  asked  again :  "What  am  I  to  do  ?" 

"It  depends  entirely  on  how  well  Marborne's  plan  goes,** 
said  her  brother.  "We  needn't  discuss  it  till  then." 

"What  is  he  like?"  she  asked.  "This  Morlake?" 

He  went  out  of  the  room  and  came  back  with  a  photograph, 
which  he  handed  to  her,  and  she  looked  at  the  picture  with  a 
calculating  eye. 

"He's  rather  nice-looking,"  she  said.  "Who  is  he?" 

"I'd  give  a  lot  of  money  to  know,"  snapped  Hamon.  "Don't 
ask  questions,  Lydia.  All  I  want  to  know  from  you  is :  is  he  the 
type  of  man  that  you  could  make  up  to  if  it  paid  you  good 
money?" 

She  looked  from  the  picture  to  her  brother. 

"That  type,  and  any  type,"  she  said  briefly. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

At  Blackheath 

IT  WAS  on  a  Friday  night,  and  a  thin  film  of  fog  lay  over  the 
City,  the  forerunner  of  those  dense  mists  which  in  a  month's 
time  would  make  the  town  uninhabitable. 

Jim  Morlake  had  finished  the  light  dinner  which  the  Moor 
had  served,  and  was  reading  the  evening  newspaper  with  the 
air  of  one  who  hoped  to  find  something  amusing  in  its  pages, 
but  had  very  little  expectation  of  his  hopes  being  realised. 
Binger  had  gone  home  earlier  than  usual,  with  instructions  not 
to  return  for  three  days,  for  that  night  Morlake  intended  re- 
turning to  Wold  House,  and  his  suitcase  awaited  him  in  the 
hall.  He  could  have  gone  earlier,  but  the  fog  had  been  unusu- 
ally thick  that  afternoon,  and  he  was  waiting  for  it  to  disperse. 
The  car  was  at  the  door,  and,  putting  down  the  newspaper,  he 
walked  to  the  window,  pulled  aside  the  heavy  curtains  and 
looked  out. 


56  THE  BLACK 

"I  think  I  will  go  now,  Mahmet,"  he  said,  and  at  that  mo- 
ment the  telephone  bell  rang  sharply. 

He  took  up  the  instrument,  and  a  strange  and  excited  voice 
called  him  by  name. 

"Is  that  Mr.  Morlake?  ...  I  am  speaking  from  Black- 
heath.  Binger  has  been  knocked  down  by  a  motor-bus  and  has 
been  taken  to  12  Cranfield  Gardens.  Can  you  come  at  once?" 

"Is  he  badly  hurt  ?"  asked  Morlake  quickly. 

"He  is  not  expected  to  live,"  was  the  answer.  "I  am  Dr. 
Grainger." 

Jim  only  waited  long  enough  to  discover  the  exact  location 
of  Cranfield  Gardens,  and  a  few  minutes  later  he  was  driving 
at  full  speed  in  the  direction  of  Blackheath.  The  fog  in  the 
south  of  London  was  thicker  than  he  had  anticipated,  and 
progress  was  slow,  but  it  cleared  at  New  Cross  and  presently 
disappeared  altogether,  and  he  looked  up  into  an  unclouded  sky, 
in  which  the  stars  were  twinkling  frostily. 

Lieber,  watching  the  flat,  saw  the  car  depart,  and,  hastening 
to  a  public  telephone  booth,  gave  a  number.  It  was  Marborne 
who  answered  him. 

"He's  gone,"  said  Lieber  breathlessly.  "Went  away  at  five 
minutes  past  ten." 

"Is  he  alone?" 

"Yes,  driving  his  own  car.  And  he  looked  to  be  in  a  hurry." 

Marborne  hung  up  the  telephone  receiver,  paid  the  propri- 
etor of  the  little  Greenwich  restaurant,  in  which  he  had  been 
waiting  for  an  hour  for  the  news,  and  hurried  out  to  where 
Slone  and  Colley  were  waiting  for  him. 

"There  is  no  time  to  be  lost,  Colley.  Get  into  that  house  just 
as  quickly  as  you  can." 

"It's  early  yet,  Mr.  Marborne.  They  won't  be  in  bed,"  pro- 
tested Colley. 

"The  whole  house  goes  to  bed  at  nine,"  said  the  other  im- 
patiently. "Do  you  think  I  haven't  made  sure  of  that  ?" 

The  car  that  had  been  hired  for  the  night  carried  them  to 
Blackheath,  and  at  the  corner  of  Cranfield  Gardens  Colley  re- 
ceived his  instructions. 

"You'll  get  through  the  pantry  window  and  up  to  the  first 


AT  BLACKHEATH  57 

floor.  If  you  like  to  smash  one  of  the  glass  cases  where  the 
jewellery  is  kept,  you  can.  Now  there  will  be  no  risk,  Colley. 
As  soon  as  you've  done  your  work  and  got  the  family  aroused, 
get  out.  You  haven't  any  time  to  spare." 

The  burglar  slunk  away  into  the  darkness,  and  the  uncom- 
fortable Slone  interrogated  his  superior. 

"It's  crude,  inspector.  He'll  never  fall  into  a  trap  as  open  as 
that,"  he  said.  "He'll  go  straight  to  his  servant's  house  and 
he'll  find  him  at  home." 

"I  tell  you  he  will  come  straight  here.  I  could  tell  by  his 
voice,  when  I  called  him  up,  that  he  is  worried  about  Binger." 

The  two  men  walked  rapidly  down  Cranfield  Gardens  and 
turned  into  a  gateway. 

"I  can  hear  the  sound  of  a  car  coming  up  the  hill,"  said 
Marborne  suddenly.  "Get  into  the  shadow  of  the  steps." 

"I  don't  like  it,"  growled  Slone.  "It's  too  easy,  I  tell  you.  It 
can't  go  right " 

"Shut  up !"  hissed  the  other.  "Here  is  the  car." 

Turning  from  Blackheath  Hill,  Jim  Morlake  stopped  the 
machine  and  alighted.  No.  12  was  the  fourth  house  from  that 
end  of  the  street  he  had  entered,  a  high- fronted,  sombre  house, 
showing  no  sign  of  light.  He  had  unlatched  and  passed  through 
the  wooden  gate  before  the  absence  of  the  red  light  which 
usually  advertises  a  doctor's  house  occurred  to  him,  and  he 
•walked  back  to  inspect  the  gate  posts  to  make  sure.  Yes,  it  wa& 
No.  12.  Hesitating  no  longer,  he  walked  up  the  path  and 
mounted  the  stone  steps.  As  he  did  so,  he  heard,  from  inside 
the  house,  a  shot  and  the  thump  of  heavy  feet  in  the  hall,  and 
drew  back. 

And  then  there  came  to  him  instinctively  an  understanding 
of  his  danger,  and  he  flew  down  the  steps.  Two  strides  he  took 
in  the  direction  of  the  gate,  and  something  struck  him.  He 
half  turned,  dazed  and  semi-conscious,  and  again  the  blow 
fell  and  everything  went  dark. 

When  he  recovered  consciousness,  he  was  lying  on  a  hard 
wooden  form,  and  a  man  was  doing  something  to  his  head.  He 
opened  his  eyes,  and  in  the  dim  light  of  the  cell  in  which  he  lay 
he  saw  a  bearded  figure  fixing  a  bandage. 


58  THE  BLACK 

"Lie  down,"  said  the  doctor  authoritatively,  and  Jim  obeyed. 

It  was  a  cell :  he  had  recognised  the  character  of  the  apart- 
ment the  moment  he  had  opened  his  eyes.  How  had  he  got  there, 
and  what  had  happened?  Then  he  remembered  the  blow  that 
had  struck  him  down.  His  head  was  throbbing  painfully;  he 
had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  of  restriction  about  his  hands, 
and,  looking  at  them,  he  saw  that  they  were  clipped  together 
with  handcuffs. 

"Why  am  I  here  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  daresay  the  inspector  will  tell  you  all  about  it,"  said  the 
doctor  as  he  pinned  the  ends  of  the  bandage  and  stepped  back 
to  admire  his  handiwork. 

"Oh,  he  will,  will  he?"  said  Jim  dully.  "Well,  I  should  very 
much  like  him  to  come  and  give  his  explanation.  How  is  Bin- 
ger?"  He  smiled  faintly.  "I  suppose  the  Binger  story  was  a 
fake?  The  inspector  to  whom  you  refer  is  Inspector  Mar- 
borne?" 

"You'd  better  ask  him,"  said  the  diplomatic  doctor.  "He  will 
be  here  in  a  few  minutes." 

He  went  out,  and  the  cell  door  clanged  on  James  Morlake. 
With  some  difficulty  he  raised  himself  to  a  sitting  position 
and  took  stock  of  his  unhappy  state.  Mechanically  he  put  his 
hand  in  his  pocket :  it  was  empty.  He  tried  another  with  a  simi- 
lar result.  His  watch  and  chain  had  gone,  his  cigarette-case, 
everything  he  had  possessed  had  been  taken  from  him. 

He  was  very  much  alert  now ;  he  even  forgot  the  physical 
pain  he  suffered. 

There  was  a  click  of  a  lock,  the  cell  door  opened,  and  Mar- 
borne  came  in  with  a  smile  of  triumph  on  his  face. 

"Well,  Morlake,  we've  got  you  at  last !" 

"I  ought  to  have  given  you  those  matches,"  said  Jim  coolly ; 
"and  really,  if  I'd  known  that  you  had  taken  such  a  fancy  to 
them,  Marborne,  that  you  would  waylay  and  rob  me,  I'd  have 
saved  you  the  trouble." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  about  matches,"  said  Mar- 
borne  brusquely.  "All  I  know  is  that  we've  caught  you  with  the 
goods.  You  know  my  name  ?" 


CAUGHT!  59 

i 

"I  know  your  name,"  nodded  Jim.  "You're  Inspector  Mar- 
borne." 

"I  am  Inspector  Marborne,"  said  the  man  in  his  best  official 
manner,  "and  I  shall  charge  you  with  burglariously  entering 
No.  12  Cranfield  Gardens  last  night.  I  shall  further  charge 
you  with  being  in  possession  of  a  loaded  revolver  and  house- 
breaking  implements.  I  shall  further  charge  you  with  breaking 
and  entering  the  Burlington  Safe  Deposit  on  the  seventeenth 
of  this  month,  and  still  further  with  breaking  and  entering 
the  Home  Counties  Bank  on  the  twelfth  of  August." 

He  paused. 

"Don't  let  me  interrupt  your  curious  recital,"  said  Jim.  "You 
will  also  caution  me  that  anything  I  say  may  be  used  in  evi- 
dence against  me.  That  is  your  duty,  you  know,  inspector,  but 
you  omitted  the  customary  caution." 

The  detective  was  scrutinising  him  keenly. 

"You'll  be  interested  to  know  that  I've  also  arrested  your 
accomplice,  Jane  Smith,"  he  said,  and  Jim  chuckled. 

"I'm  delighted !  I  should  very  much  like  to  see  Jane  Smith. 
And  have  you  arrested  our  friend  Hamon  too  ?" 

The  detective  smiled  indulgently. 

"None  of  that,  Morlake,"  he  said.  "You  know  I've  not  ar- 
rested Mr.  Hamon.  What  charge  could  you  make  against 
him?" 

Jim  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then : 

"Wilful  murder,"  he  said  quietly;  "and  I  should  charge  you 
with  being  an  accomplice  after  the  fact." 


CHAPTER   XIV 

Caught ! 

FOR  a  time  the  police  officer  did  not  recognise  the  significance 
of  Jim's  charge. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  roughly.  "Wilful  murder !" 


60  THE  BLACK 

"As  to  how  much  you  know  of  the  matter  I  have  yet  to  learn, 
Marborne,"  said  Jim  Morlake  quietly.  "But  on  the  day  I  catch 
Hamon  it  will  go  pretty  hard  with  you!" 

"When  you  catch  Hamon — are  you  pretending  to  be  a 
policeman  too?"  asked  the  other  sarcastically. 

"I'm  not  even  pretending  to  be  a  policeman.  I  have  never 
sunk  so  low,"  said  Jim. 

The  detective  stooped  down  and  pulled  him  to  his  feet. 

"You're  coming  out  to  see  a  few  of  the  jiggers  that  were 
found  on  you  when  you  were  arrested,"  he  said,  and  pushed 
him  along  the  corridor  to  the  charge  room. 

On  the  station  sergeant's  desk  was  a  variety  of  articles. 
There  was  a  black  silk  mask,  the  eyeholes  of  which,  as  Jim 
saw  with  a  professional  glance,  had  been  newly  cut ;  an  auto- 
matic pistol,  a  complete  set  of  house-breaking  tools,  a  small 
acetylene  blow-lamp,  a  tiny  rubber  case  containing  six  phials, 
and  three  small  skeleton  keys. 

"Are  these  supposed  to  be  mine  ?  Where  did  I  carry  them 
—-in  my  waistcoat  pocket  ?"  he  asked. 

"Some  were  in  your  coat  pocket,  some  were  concealed  under 
the  cushion  of  your  car,"  said  the  detective.  "You  admit  these 
are  yours,  I  suppose  ?" 

"I  admit  nothing.  The  only  thing  I  can't  see,  which  really 
belongs  to  me,  is  a  gold  watch  and  chain,  which  I  presume  you 
have  confiscated  for  personal  use.  There  was  also  a  little  money 
• — some  sixty-five  pounds — which  isn't  visible.  Are  those  also 
your  personal  perquisites,  Marborne  ?' 

"I've  got  the  money  and  the  watch  in  my  desk,"  said  the 
station  sergeant.  "You  don't  make  your  case  any  better  by 
bringing  charges  against  this  officer,  Morlake." 

"Perhaps  I  don't,"  admitted  Jim  after  a  moment's  thought. 

He  held  up  his  manacled  hands. 

"These  are  not  exactly  necessary,  are  they,  sergeant  ?" 

"I  don't  think  so." 

The  sergeant  took  down  a  key  from  behind  his  desk,  and 
Unlocking  the  handcuffs,  removed  them.  In  charge  of  th« 
gaoler,  Jim  was  removed  to  the  cell. 


CAUGHT!  61 

Joan  Carston  was  at  breakfast  at  Lowndes  Square,  reading 
the  morning  newspaper,  when  Hamon  was  announced,  and 
with  a  groan  she  put  down  the  journal  and  glanced  pathetically 
across  to  her  father. 

"Bless  the  man !  Why  does  he  come  at  this  hour  of  the  morn- 
ing?" he  demanded  irritably.  "I  thought  we  should  be  free  of 
him  for  a  month  or  so  ?" 

He  was  not  in  a  pleasant  frame  of  mind.  The  horse  he  had 
backed  for  the  long  distance  handicap  at  Newmarket  had  been 
struck  out  overnight,  and  he  was  not  unnaturally  annoyed. 

"We  shall  have  to  see  him :  let  us  get  it  over,"  said  Joan,  re- 
signed. 

Ralph  Hamon's  manner  was  both  brisk  and  cheerful:  in 
fact,  the  girl  had  never  seen  him  quite  so  bright  as  he  was, 
as  he  pranced  into  the  dining-room — the  description  was  hers. 

"I  have  some  very  interesting  news  for  you  people  this 
morning,"  he  said,  almost  jovially,  as,  without  invitation,  he 
pulled  out  a  chair  and  sat  down  to  the  breakfast  table.  "We've 
got  the  devil !" 

"Good  business,"  murmured  his  lordship.  "I  hope  you  will 
fasten  the  customary  chains  to  his  legs  and  cast  him  down  into 
his  jolly  old  pit." 

"Which  particular  devil  are  you  talking  about,  Mr.  Hamon  ?" 
asked  the  girl,  with  a  sinking  of  her  heart. 

"Morlake.  He  was  caught  red-handed  last  night,  burglaring 
a  house  at  Blackheath." 

She  jumped  to  her  feet. 

"You  don't  mean  that!"  she  gasped.  "Mr.  Morlake  .  .  . 
oh,  no,  it  isn't  true !" 

"It  is  delightfully  true,"  said  Hamon.  (She  thought  he 
smacked  his  lips.)  "He  was  caught  red-handed  in  the  act  of 
breaking  into  the  house  of  a  man  who  has  a  collection  of  an- 
tique jewellery.  Fortunately,  two  police  officers  who  have  had 
him  under  observation  for  some  time  had  shadowed  him,  and 
took  him  just  as  he  was  running  out  of  the  house,  having  been 
disturbed  in  his  work  by  the  owner,  a  Colonel  Paterson." 

Lord  Creith  took  off  his  glasses  and  stared  at  the  other  in 
amazement. 


62  THE  BLACK 

"You  mean  James  Morlake,  our  neighbour?"  he  asked  in- 
credulously. 

Hamon  nodded. 

"I  mean  The  Black,  the  cleverest  burglar  we've  had  in  this 
country  for  years." 

Joan  had  sunk  back  to  her  seat :  the  room  seemed  to  be  swim- 
ming. Hamon  was  telling  the  truth ;  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  exhilaration  in  his  voice. 

"Of  course  you  caught  him,"  she  said  at  last,  speaking  slowly 
as  though  to  herself.  "You  said  you  would,  didn't  you?" 

"I  didn't  exactly  catch  him  myself,"  said  Hamon,  loth  to 
relinquish  the  credit,  "but  I  must  confess  that  I  was  able  to 
give  the  police  a  great  deal  of  useful  information.  And  by  the 
way,  Lady  Joan,  my  sister  is  giving  herself  the  pleasure  of 
calling  on  you  to-day." 

"Yes  ?"  said  Joan  absently.  "Oh,  yes,  you  have  a  sister  in 
Paris.  I'm  afraid  I  shan't  be  at  home  this  afternoon." 

"I  thought  you  wouldn't  be,  so  I  told  her  to  call  this  morning. 
You'll  like  Lydia:  she's  a  good  girl,  though  I'm  afraid  I've 
spoilt  her  a  little.  But  she's  one  of  the  best." 

"When  will  Mr.  Morlake  come  for  trial?"  she  asked,  dis- 
missing the  existence  of  Lydia  Hamon. 

"He'll  come  up  this  morning  for  the  preliminary  hearing, 
and  then  I  suppose  he'll  be  remanded,  and  next  week  he'll  be 
committed  for  trial.  You're  interested  in  him,  aren't  you? 
Well,  it  is  only  natural  that  you  should  be.  These  rascals  have 
a  certain  romantic  interest,  even  for  the  more  law-abiding." 

"Not  every  rascal,"  she  answered  instantly.  "I  know  some 
who  are  the  most  uninteresting  creatures  it  is  possible  to 
meet!" 

She  had  recovered  her  poise,  and  Lord  Creith,  who  knew 
his  daughter  remarkably  well,  detected  what*Mr.  Hamon  had 
failed  to  notice — a  certain  gentle  malignity  in  her  voice,  and 
writhed  at  the  memory  of  past  encounters  with  his  daughter 
that  had  left  him  a  little  limp. 

"Has  he  any  friends  ?  I  mean,  is  there  anybody  who  would 
bail  him?" 

"No  bail  would  be  allowed,"  answered  Hamon  promptly,. 


CAUGHT!  63 

"Having  got  the  fellow,  it  is  hardly  likely  that  the  police  are 
going  to  risk  his  bolting,  especially  as  he  put  up  a  tough  fight 
before  he  was  captured." 

"Was  he  hurt  ?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"He  got  a  blow  or  two,"  said  Hamon,  with  a  careless  shrug, 
and  her  eyes  did  not  leave  his. 

"You  know  a  great  deal  about  this :  I  suppose  they  'phoned 
you  up  and  told  you,  as  you  were  interested  ?" 

"I  only  know  what  I  read  in  the  newspapers,"  said  Hamon 
quickly,  and  he  saw  her  lip  curl. 

"It  is  not  in  the  newspapers,"  she  said.  "It  happened  too 
late  last  night  to  be  in  the  morning  Press." 

She  got  up  from  the  table  and  walked  out  of  the  room  with- 
out another  word. 

"Joan  takes  a  tremendous  interest  in  this  fellow,"  growled 
Hamon. 

"Why  shouldn't  she?"  demanded  Lord  Creith,  beaming  at 
him.  "I  think  he's  immensely  interesting.  By  Jove,  I  wish  I'd 
known  he  was  a  burglar !  I'd  have  gone  to  him  and  found  an 
easier  way  of  making  money  than  selling  my  poor  old  Creith, 
lock,  stock  and  barrel.  Where  will  this  interesting  criminal 
come  up  for  trial  ?" 

"At  Greenwich  Police  Court,"  said  the  other. 

"Greenwich !"  said  Lord  Creith,  as  though  Greenwich  Police 
Court  were  the  last  place  in  the  world  he  would  have  imagined 
the  man  would  be  brought  for  judgment. 

It  was  near  mid-day  when  a  gaoler  called  his  name,  and  Jim 
Morlake  walked  through  an  open  door  into  the  large  court  and 
was  guided  to  the  steel  pen.  The  court  was  crowded,  and  the 
reporters'  bench,  designed  to  hold  three  uncomfortably,  held 
half-a-dozen  young  men  in  agony,  whilst  an  army  of  Pressmen 
overflowed  into  the  public  benches. 

Brief  evidence  of  the  arrest  was  given ;  a  hint  was  offered 
that  new  and  more  startling  charges  would  be  produced  at 
the  next  hearing,  and  the  police,  represented  by  their  official 
lawyer,  asked  for  a  remand — a  course  which  Jim's  attorney 
mechanically  opposed,  though  his  opposition  was  overruled. 


64  THE  BLACK 

"On  the  question  of  bail,  your  worship "  began  the  de* 

fending  counsel,  but  the  magistrate  shook  his  head. 

"There  can  be  no  question  of  bail,"  he  said. 

And  here  there  occurred  an  unexpected  interruption.  A  tall, 
lean  man  stepped,  without  invitation,  to  the  witness-box  and 
handed  his  card  to  the  magistrates'  clerk. 

"This  gentleman" — he  looked  over  his  glasses  at  the  wonder- 
ing Jim — "is  a  neighbour  of  mine,  and  I  am  particularly  anx- 
ious that  he  shall  have  every  facility  for  preparing  his  de- 
fence." 

"I  am  extremely  sorry,  Lord  Creith,"  said  the  magistrate, 
"but  in  these  cases,  where  the  police  oppose  bail,  as  I  under- 
stand they  do,  we  cannot  deviate  from  the  rule  of  the  court." 

Jim  went  back  to  his  cell  wondering  what  on  earth  had  in- 
duced this  distinguished-looking  old  man,  whom  he  knew  by 
name,  and  whose  home  he  had  once  burgled,  to  come  forward 
and,  in  order  to  serve  a  man  he  did  not  know,  court  the  pub- 
licity which  many  of  his  class  so  intensely  disliked. 


CHAPTER   XV 

Joan  Makes  a  Confession 

JOAN  read,  with  as  great  astonishment,  the  account  of  her 
father's  interposition  in  an  evening  newspaper,  and  when  he 
came  in  to  dinner  that  night  she  was  waiting  for  him  in  the 
hall. 

"Really,  Daddy,  you're  a  most  wonderful  person,"  she  said, 
kissing  him.  "Did  you  see  him  ?" 

"I  saw  him,"  admitted  Lord  Creith,  in  whom  any  demon- 
stration of  affection  on  the  part  of  his  daughter  produced  a 
sense  of  discomfort,  "and  quite  a  nice-looking  fellow  he  is, 
Joan."  He  shook  his  head.  "The  police  say  he's  a  most  danger- 
ous rascal.  You'd  never  dream  it  to  see  him.  To  tell  you  the 


JOAN  MAKES  A  CONFESSION  65 

truth" — he  looked  round  and  lowered  his  voice — "our  friend 
Hamon  is  infinitely  more  criminal-looking !  And  for  heaven's 
sake,  don't  repeat  my  words,  Joan.  The  last  time  I  said  some- 
thing unpleasant  about  Hamon,  you  blurted  it  out  in  the  middle 
of  dinner,  and  I  had  to  lie  myself  blue  to  save  my  face." 

Joan  had  successfully  avoided  meeting  Miss  Lydia  Hamon 
that  morning,  and  was  hopeful  that  so  inexcusably  rude  had 
she  been  in  her  failure  to  keep  an  appointment,  that  the  girl 
would  not  call  upon  her.  At  any  other  time  she  would  have 
been  curious  to  see  what  type  of  individual  a  sister  of  Ralph 
Hamon  would  be.  To-day  one  thought  and  one  subject 
absorbed  her. 

The  two  hours  before  dinner  Lord  Creith  ordinarily  de- 
voted to  what  he  described  as  a  siesta,  and  Joan  usually  occu- 
pied that  period  in  dealing  with  her  correspondence.  She  was 
in  no  heart  to  write  to-day,  and  less  in  a  mood  to  entertain 
visitors,  so  that  Peters's  announcement  that  Lydia  Hamon 
had  called  wrung  from  her  a  sigh  of  despan . 

"Ask  her  to  come  up,"  she  said,  and  braced  herself  to  be 
polite. 

Her  first  feeling,  on  seeing  the  visitor,  was  one  of  surprise. 
Lydia  had  many  accomplishments,  not  least  of  which  was  an 
exquisite  taste  in  dress,  and  so  fragile  and  sweet  she  looked, 
as  she  came  into  the  drawing-room,  that  Joan  found  it  difficult 
to  believe  that  the  girl  could  claim  any  relationship  with  the 
unprepossessing  Mr.  Hamon. 

"I'm  so  sorry  I  have  interrupted  you,"  drawled  the  visitor, 
with  a  glance  at  the  writing-table,  which  Joan  had  hastily  lit- 
tered with  notcpaper  in  preparation  for  an  excuse  to  cut  the 
interview  short.  "I  called  this  morning ;  Ralph  said  you  would 
be  expecting  me,  but  you  were  out." 

Joan  murmured  her  apologies,  wondering  what  was  the  urg- 
ency of  the  business  which  brought  the  girl  at  this  unconven- 
tional hour  to  make  her  call. 

"I  am  only  in  London  for  a  few  days,  and  I  simply  had  to  see 
you,"  said  Lydia,  as  though  supplying  an  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion uppermost  in  Joan's  mind  at  that  moment.  "I  live  in  Paris- 
Do  you  know  Paris  very  well  ?" 


66  THE  BLACK 

"I  know  it  a  little.  It  is  not  my  favourite  city,"  said  Joan. 

"Really !"  Those  arched  eyebrows  of  Lydia's  rose.  "I  can't 
understand  anybody  not  loving  Paris :  it  is  so  delightful  to  peo- 
ple of  taste." 

"Then  my  taste  is  deficient,"  said  Joan  almost  good- 
humouredly. 

"No,  I  didn't  mean  that."  The  girl  hastened  to  correct  any 
possibly  bad  impression.  "I  think  one  lives  there.  Do  you  know 
the  Due  de  Montvidier  ?  He  is  a  great  friend  of  ours." 

She  rattled  off  the  names  of  a  dozen  noble  Frenchmen 
without  Joan  discovering  one  in  whom  she  might  claim  to  have 
an  interest,  let  alone  an  acquaintance. 

"Ralph  tells  me  he  has  bought  your  place  in  Sussex,"  said 
Lydia,  playing  with  the  handle  of  her  parasol  and  looking  past 
the  girl.  "It  is  a  beautiful  place,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  it  is  lovely,"  said  Joan  quietly. 

"I  think  it  is  such  a  pity,"  cooed  Lydia,  "the  old  place  passing 
out  of  your  possession/which  has  been  in  your  family  for  hun- 
dreds of  years — it  must  be  a  great  blow  to  you.  I  told  Ralph 
that  I  wondered  he  had  the  heart  to  take  possession." 

"He  hasn't  taken  possession  yet ;  he  doesn't  so  long  as  my 
father  is  alive,"  said  Joan,  beginning  to  understand  the  reason 
for  the  visit. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know.  I  wasn't  thinking  about  your  father,  I  was 
thinking  about  you  more  particularly.  And  I  know  Ralph  thinks 
about  you  a  great  deal." 

Lydia  looked  under  her  eyelashes  at  the  expressionless  face 
of  her  hostess. 

"Ralph  worries  very  much.  He  is  awfully  kind-hearted.  Very 
few  people  understand  him.  To  the  average  every-day  person, 
Ralph  is  just  a  money-grabbing  Englishman  with  no  soul  above 
commerce.  In  reality,  he  is  tender  and  kind  and  the  most  loyal 
of  friends." 

"He  ought  to  make  some  girl  a  good  husband,"  said  Joan, 
leaping  instantly  into  the  breach. 

The  reply  took  Lydia  aback.  It  was  so  abrupt  a  declaration 
of  all  that  she  meant  to  hint,  that  she  lost  her  place  in  the  narra- 
tive she  had  so  well  rehearsed. 


JOAN  MAKES  A  CONFESSION  67 

"That  is  what  I  think.  Honestly — though  perhaps  you  will 
think  it  an  impertinence  of  me  to  say  so — Ralph  is  a  prize  worth 
winning." 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  think  it  an  impertinence," 
said  Joan,  "since  I  am  not  a  competitor  for  the  prize." 

A  spirit  of  mischief  was  in  her — the  devil  which  on  occa- 
sions caused  Lord  Creith  great  uneasiness  of  mind. 

"You  see,  I  couldn't  very  well  marry  your  brother — to  put 
the  matter  very  plainly." 

"Why  not  ?"  Lydia  was  betrayed  into  asking. 

"Because  I'm  already  engaged,"  said  Joan.  "In  fact,  the  en- 
gagement is  such  a  long-standing  one  that  I  shouldn't  like  to 
break  it  off." 

"Engaged!" 

It  was  evidently  news  to  Lydia,  and  inwardly  she  grew  angry 
with  her  brother  that  he  had  not  added  this  information  to  the 
important  details  with  which  he  had  furnished  her. 

"Yes,  I'm  engaged." 

"But  you  wear  no  engagement  ring?"  said  Lydia. 

"An  engagement  ring  is  not  necessary  when  two  hearts  are 
in  unison,"  replied  Joan  smugly. 

"My  brother  doesn't  know." 

"Then  you  have  some  news  to  tell  him,"  said  Joan. 

Lydia  had  risen  and  was  twirling  her  parasol  awkwardly, 
being  at  a  loss  now  as  to  how  the  interview  could  be  termi- 
nated with  the  least  possible  delay. 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  you  will  be  happy,"  she  said  tartly,  "but 
I  think  it  is  the  greatest  mistake  in  the  world  for  a  girl  of  your 
breeding  to  marry  somebody  without  money.  And  of  course,  if 
he  had  any  money,  he  wouldn't  have  allowed  Ralph  to  have 
bought  your  father's  estate." 

"Such  marriages  sometimes  turn  out  badly,"  said  Joan 
sweetly,  "but  one  hopes  this  particular  match — which  is  a  love 
match  into  which  the  sordid  question  of  money  has  never  in- 
truded— will  be  an  exception." 

The  object  of  the  girl's  vsit  was  now  explained.  Her  cha- 
grin, her  confusion,  the  undisguised  annoyance  in  her  face 
and  mien  told  Joan  all  that  she  wanted  to  know. 


68  THE  BLACK 

"Perhaps  you  will  change  your  mind,"  said  Lydia,  holding 
out  a  limp  hand.  "Ralph  is  the  sort  of  man  who  is  not  easily  put 
off  anything  he  wants.  He  is  a  very  good  friend  and  a  very  bad 
enemy.  There  is  a  man  who  is  kicking  his  heels  in  a  prison  cell 
who  knows  that !" 

She  saw  the  flush  dawn  in  Joan's  face,  but  misunderstood  the 
cause. 

"I  don't  know  why  people  in  prison  should  amuse  themselves 
by  kicking  their  heels,"  said  Joan  coldly ;  "and  in  all  probability 
Mr.  Morlake  is  quite  cheerful." 

"You  know  James  Morlake  ?" 

Joan  met  the  dark  eyes  of  Lydia  Hamon  and  held  them.  "I 
ought  to,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  am  engaged  to  him." 


CHAPTER   XVI 
Mr.  Hamon  Is  Shown  Out 

THE  Earl  of  Creith  came  down  to  dinner  in  the  care-free  mocxj 
which  an  afternoon  nap,  for  some  mysterious  reason,  invaria- 
bly induced,  and  over  the  coffee  Joan  described  her  interview. 

"Good  heavens !"  said  his  lordship,  for  the  moment  aghast. 
"What  a  thing  to  say !" 

"I  had  to  shock  her,"  said  Joan  in  justification. 

"Shock  her !  But,  merciful  Moses !  there  were  other  ways 
of  doing  it,  Joan.  You  could  have  told  her  that  the  wine  at 
Creith  was  corked — as  it  undoubtedly  is — or  that  the  roof 
leaked — which  it  does.  Why  tell  her  that  you're  engaged  to  be 
married  to  a — a  sort  of  burglar?  You're  not,  are  you?"  he 
asked  suspiciously. 

"I'm  not.  I  don't  even  know  him." 

"H'm !"  said  her  father,  puckering  his  forehead.  "Suppose 
this  gets  into  the  papers?  'Peeress  Engaged  to  Burglar,'  or 
'Earl's  Daughter  to  Wed  Notorious  American  Cracksman  on 


MR.  HAMON  IS  SHOWN  OUT  69 

His  Release  from  Prison,'  eh?  How  do  you  think  he'd  like 
it?" 

Joan  opened  her  mouth  in  consternation. 

"I  never  thought  of  that !"  she  gasped. 

"After  all,"  said  the  Earl,  deriving  infinite  satisfaction  from 
the  knowledge  that  for  once  he  was  master  of  the  situation, 
"after  all,  he  may  have  his  feelings.  Burglars  may  consider 
themselves  a  cut  above  the  new  poor " 

"Please  don't  be  absurd,  Father !  Who  would  tell  him?" 

"Anyway,  it  was  a  foolish  thing  to  do,  because  this  Hamon 
man  will  be  coming  round  and  bothering  me  about  it.  And 
nobody  knows  better  than  you,  Joan,  that  I  hate  being  both- 
ered." 

"You  can  tell  him  you  know  nothing  about  it — which  is  true. 
You  can  also  say  that  I  am  my  own  mistress,  which  is  also 
true." 

The  old  man  gulped  down  his  coffee. 

"Perhaps  he  won't  come,"  he  said  hopefully,  but  he  had  not 
risen  from  the  table  when  Ralph  Hamon's  loud  knock  an- 
nounced his  arrival. 

"I'm  not  in !"  said  Lord  Creith  hastily.  "Tell  him  I'm  out, 
Joan  .  .  ." 

He  made  a  hasty  and  somewhat  undignified  exit. 

She  walked  into  the  drawing-room  to  find  a  fuming  Hamon 
stalking  up  and  down  the  carpet.  He  spun  round  as  she  opened 
the  door. 

"What  is  this  story  that  Lydia  tells  me  ?"  he  stormed. 

The  change  in  him  was  remarkable.  At  the  best  he  was  an 
unpleasant-looking  man — now  she  shuddered  to  see  him.  His 
jaw  was  out-thrust,  his  eyes  blazed  with  anger. 

"So  you  know  Morelake,  do  you? — you're  Jane  Smith!"  he 
pointed  an  accusing  finger  at  her,  and  her  calm  nod  seemed  to 
infuriate  him. 

"Joan,  I've  told  you  before — I  tell  you  again  that  you  are 
the  only  woman  in  the  world  for  me.  I  will  have  you — and  no- 
body else.  I'd  kill  him  and  you  too  rather !  If  this  is  true,  I'll 
never  leave  him  till  he's  dead !" 

She  did  not  flinch,  and  in  her  quiet  disdain  the  tortured  man 


70  THE  BLACK 

thought  her  never  so  beautiful.  Slim  and  white,  a  fragile  thing, 
of  youth,  with  her  child  face  and  the  figure  that  was  nearly 
woman.  His  hands  went  out  toward  her  instinctively,  but  she 
did  not  move. 

"I  know  a  dozen  men  who  would  take  you  by  the  collar  and 
throw  you  out  of  this  house  if  they  knew  a  half  of  what  you 
said." 

Her  voice  was  steady :  she  showed  no  trace  of  that  agitation 
which  he  expected. 

"If  I  am  misinformed "  he  began  huskily. 

"You  are.  It  was  a  stupid  joke  on  my  part  to  tell  your  sister 
that  I  was  engaged,  but  I  disliked  her  so ;  she  was  so  horribly 
common  with  her  affectations  and  her  talk  of  the  aristocrats 
she  knew — such  a  feminine  edition  of  you,  Mr.  Hamon.  I 
could  imagine  her  screaming  at  me,  as  you  have  been  screaming. 
A  wretched  virago  shrieking  me  down." 

She  had  left  the  door  open  as  she  came  in,  and  Peters,  she 
knew,  was  in  the  hall. 

"Peters,"  she  called,  and  the  butler  came  in.  "Show  Mr. 
Hamon  out ;  he  is  not  to  be  admitted  either  to  this  house  or 
Creitk" 

Peters  bowed,  and,  his  eyes  upon  Ralph  Hamon,  jerked  his 
head  to  the  door. 

It  was  one  of  the  happiest  moments  of  his  lif«. 


CHAPTER   XVII 
Gentle  Julius 

COLONEL  CARTER,  of  the  Criminal  Investigation  Bureau,  took 
his  cigar  from  his  mouth  in  order  to  smile  the  more  com- 
fortably. 

"My  dear  Welling,  you  are  romantic,  and  because  you  are 
romantic  you  ought  to  have  been  a  failure.  Instead  of  which, 


GENTLE  JULIUS  71 

by  some  mysterious  dispensation  of  providence,  you  are  a  very 
successful  detective  officer.  Romance  plays  no  part  in  our 
work ;  there  is  nothing  romantic  about  crime.  A  is  a  thief,  with 
peculiar  but  well-known  methods ;  B  is  a  stolid,  unimaginative 
police  officer  who,  called  into  a  case  of  burglary,  larceny,  any- 
thing you  like,  finds  that  the  crime  has  been  committed  by 
somebody  who  employs  the  methods  of  A.  Perhaps  A  makes 
a  hobby  of  forcing  kitchen  windows,  or  using  chance- found 
ladders,  or  is  in  the  habit  of  taking  a  meal  after  the  robbery  is 
committed.  Anyway,  there  are  characteristics  of  A.  So  B  ar- 
rests him,  and  generally  he  is  right.  You,  on  the  other  hand, 
would  find,  in  the  remnants  of  a  stolen  meal,  proof  that  the 
robber  was  starving  and  would  look  for  a  hungry-looking,  left- 
handed  man !" 

Julius  Welling,  Chief  of  the  8th  Bureau,  sighed.  He  was  an 
elderly,  white-haired  man  with  a  sad  face  and  a  trick  of  rub- 
bing his  nose  when  he  was  embarrassed. 

"You've  won  through,  heaven  knows  how,"  mumbled  Carter 
through  his  cigar.  "Maybe  it  is  luck — maybe  inspiration." 

"You  have  omitted  all  the  possibilities  of  genius,"  said  the 
other  gently. 

In  the  service  which  he  had  adorned  for  thirty-five  years  they 
christened  him  "Gentle  Julius."  His  rank  was  equivalent  to  a 
Chief  Constable,  for  every  promotion  that  could  come  to  a  suc- 
cessful police  officer  had  been  his,  and  on  the  rare  occasions 
that  he  wore  a  uniform,  his  decorations  ran  in  three  straight 
rows  from  buttons  to  shoulder. 

Jackson  Carter  and  he  had  entered  the  service  on  the  same 
day,  the  former  an  office  man  with  a  peculiar  gift  for  organisa- 
tion, the  other  so  immersed  in  his  study  of  men  and  women 
that  he  scarcely  noticed  the  passing  of  the  years  that  brought 
him  so  much  honour. 

"As  I  say,  you're  a  romantic  old  dog,"  said  Carter,  on  his 
favourite  theme,  which  was  very  nearly  his  only  recreation,  the 
baiting  of  his  lifelong  friend.  "Though  I  admit — and  this  is 
very  handsome  of  me — that  your  dreamings  have  sometimes 
led  you  to  queer  results." 

Julius  Welling  smiled  with  his  eyes. 


72  THE  BLACK 

"Where  will  my  present  dream  lead  me  to  ?"  he  asked. 

"To  failure,"  said  the  other  seriously.  "We've  got  The 
Black — there  is  no  doubt  about  it.  I  wish  somebody  else  than 
Marborne  had  got  him,  for  I  had  sharpened  the  toe  of  my  right 
boot  for  him,  but  there  is  the  luck  of  the  game ;  Marborne  has 
caught  him.  We  have  all  the  evidence  we  want.  Apart  from  the 
fact  that  he  was  taken  in  the  act,  the  burglar's  kit  and  gun  we 
found  on  him,  a  whole  lot  of  stuff  has  been  discovered  in  his 
flat  in  Bond  Street.  A  parcel  of  money  marked  with  the  stamp 
of  the  Home  Counties  Bank " 

"I  could  get  that  by  applying  to  the  Home  Counties,"  mur- 
mured Mr.  Welling. 

"A  cash  box  buried  in  his  garden " 

"Why  should  he  bury  a  cash  box  in  his  garden?"  asked  the 
other  plaintively.  "Only  amateur  crooks  do  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Well,  how  did  it  get  there?"  asked  the  exasperated  Carter. 

Mr.  Welling  rubbed  his  nose  thoughtfully. 

"It  may  have  been  planted  there  to  get  a  conviction,"  he  sug- 
gested. "Marborne  caught  Shellman,  the  banknote  forger,  that 
way." 

The  chief  stared  at  him. 

"Do  you  mean  it  was  a  frame-up  ?"  he  asked,  and  Welling 
nodded. 

"The  particular  charge  on  which  he  was  convicted  was  faked. 
I've  known  it  for  some  time.  Shellman,  of  course,  was  a 
forger,  too  clever  to  be  caught.  The  charge  on  which  he  went 
down  for  ten  years  was  undoubtedly  framed  for  him,  and  Mar- 
borne  did  the  framing." 

"That  is  news  to  me,"  said  the  other  with  a  frown. 

"As  to  this  Morlake  man,"  Mr.  Welling  advanced  his  views 
with  characteristic  timidity,  "doesn't  the  story  he  tells  sound 
rather  fishy  ?  He  says  that  his  servant  was  ill — the  servant  lives 
at  Blackheath,  remember.  He  comes  to  the  house  and  is  sud- 
denly bludgeoned.  Taken  unawares  and  bludgeoned — and  he  is 
supposed  to  carry  a  gun !  He  comes  to  burgle  a  house  and  leaves 
bis  car  at  a  corner  of  the  street  with  all  the  lights  on,  when  there 
is  a  lane  not  half-a-dozen  yards  away  where  the  car  could  be 
hidden?  He  is  supposed  to  have  broken  in  at  the  back  of  the 


GENTLE  JULIUS  73 

house,  where  there  is  a  garden  and  an  easy  wall  that  would  get 
him  into  open  country,  and  yet  he  escapes  by  the  front  door ! 
He  'shows  fight' — how  ?  Never  forget  that  he  has  a  loaded  pis- 
tol, yet  he  'shows  fight'  to  such  purpose  that  Marborne  has  to 
take  his  'stick'  to  him.  What  was  his  gun  doing  all  this  time  ?" 

Colonel  Carter  shook  his  head. 

"The  story  of  the  telephone  call  is  a  lie " 

"On  the  contrary  it  is  true,"  said  old  Julius,  almost  apolo- 
getically. "The  New  Cross  exchange  heard  the  message.  They 
were  testing  junction  lines  because  a  subscriber  had  reported 
a  fault,  and  the  engineers  happened  to  be  listening  in  on  this 
particular  junction  when  the  call  went  through." 

Colonel  Carter  opened  his  eyes. 

"You've  been  working  on  this  case?"  he  said.  "You're  not 
filing  The  Black?" 

Gentle  Julius  shook  his  head. 

"I've  been  tailing  Marborne,"  he  said,  more  gently  than 
«ver.  "You  see,  Jack,  the  chief  holds  about  the  same  views  as 
you  concerning  the  inspector,  and  he  put  me  on  to  see  that  he 
came  to  no  harm.  And  the  man  who  called  up  Morlake  and  told 
him  the  tale  about  the  injured  servant  was  the  inspector.  Twant 
Marborne's  coat  for  my  exhibition  of  ex-officers'  uniforms. 
And,  Jack,  noth'n's  more  certain  than  that  I'll  have  it !" 

"And  what  about  Morlake  ?"  asked  Carter. 

Gentle  Julius  spread  out  his  lined  hands  in  a  gesture  o£  in- 
difference. 

"They  may  convict  him  or  they  may  not,"  he  said ;  "but  one 
thing  I  can  tell  you,  and  it  is  this.  James  Lexington  Morlake  fs 
The  Black,  the  cleverest  bank  smasher  we've  seen  in  twenty 
years.  I've  proof  and  more  than  proof  of  that,  Jack." 

He  pursed  his  lips  and  his  white  brows  met  in  a  prodigious 
scowl. 

"Ten  years  ago,"  he  said,  speaking  with  more  than  his  ordi- 
nary deliberation,  "the  Haslemere  police  picked  up  a  dying 
sailor  on  the  Portsmouth  Road." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about?"  demanded  the 
startled  Carter. 

"I'm  talking  about  The  Black,"  said  Welling,  "and  why  he's 


74  THE  BLACK 

a  burglar — get  that  in  your  mind,  Jack — a  dying  sailor  with  his 
life  hammered  out  of  him,  and  not  a  line  or  a  word  to  identify 
him ;  a  dying  sailor  that  sleeps  in  a  little  churchyard  in  Hind- 
head,  without  a  name  to  the  stone  that  is  over  him.  Ain't  that 
enough  to  turn  any  man  burglar  ?" 

"You  love  a  mystery,  don't  you,  Julius  ?"  asked  his  irritated 
friend,  when  Welling  rose. 

"Mysteries  are  my  specialty,"  said  Julius  gently. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 
The  Trial 

THE  Central  Criminal  Court  was  crowded  on  the  second  and 
last  day  of  the  trial,  when  James  Lexington  Morlake  came  up 
the  stairs  that  led  into  the  large  and  roomy  dock.  The  white 
court,  with  its  oaken  panels,  was  pleasing  to  Jim's  discrimi- 
nating eye;  the  scarlet  and  crimson  of  the  judge's  robes,  the 
velvet  and  fur  of  the  Sheriffs',  the  gold  and  red  of  the  City 
Marshal — they  harmonised  perfectly. 

The  judge  carried  in  his  hand  a  tight  bouquet  of  flowers  and 
laid  them  on  his  desk.  It  was  a  far  cry  from  the  days  of  those 
foetid  courts  when  the  judges  carried  disinfecting  herbs,  and 
an  act  of  grim  necessity  had  been  translated  through  the  ages 
into  a  pretty  custom. 

A  little  bob  of  the  white-wigged  head  as  the  judge  seated 
himself.  He  glanced  casually  at  the  prisoner,  and,  settling  him- 
self in  his  padded  chair,  waited  for  the  concluding  evidence 
of  the  last  police  witness. 

Once  or  twice  he  leant  forward  to  ask  a  question  in  a  sharp, 
thin  voice,  but  on  the  whole  he  seemed  immeasurably  bored, 
and  when  he  concealed  a  yawn  behind  his  hand.  Jim  sympa- 
thised with  him. 


THE  TRIAL  75 

"This  is  my  case,  my  lord,"  said  the  prosecuting  counsel  as 
the  last  witness  stepped  down. 

The  judge  nodded  and  glanced  at  Jim. 

"Have  you  any  witnesses  to  call,  Morlake  ?"  he  asked. 

Jim  was  not  represented  by  counsel,  and  he  had  conducted 
his  own  cross-examination  of  the  witnesses. 

"No,  my  lord.  I  should  have  called  the  operator  at  the  New 
Cross  exchange,  but  the  police  have  admitted  that  a  message 
came  through  asking  me  to  call  at  12  Cranfield  Gardens.  From 
the  known  time  that  message  came  through,  and  the  known 
hour  of  my  arrest,  it  is  clear  that  I  could  not  have  entered  the 
house  in  the  time.  The  police  rely  upon  the  fact  that  I  was  sup- 
posed to  have  been  in  possession  of  housebreaking  tools  and  a 
pistol — neither  the  purchase  nor  former  possession  of  which 
they  have  traced  to  me. 

"The  police  in  their  evidence  have  told  the  jury  that  I  am 
an  expert  burglar,  and  that  I  have  robbed  many  banks " 

"They  have  stated  that  you  are  under  suspicion,  and  the 
night  watchman  at  the  Burlington  Safe  Deposit  has  recognised 
your  voice — that  is  all  that  has  been  said  definitely  concerning 
any  previous  crime  you  may  have  comrnitted,"  interrupted  the 
judge.  "I  take  it  that  you  are  not  going  to  the  witness  stand  to 
give  evidence  on  your  own  behalf  ?" 

"That  is  so,  my  lord." 

"Then  this,  I  understand,  is  your  speech  for  the  defence? 
Very  well." 

Jim  leant  on  the  edge  of  the  pen,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  jury. 

"Gentlemen,  if  it  is  true  that  I  am  a  clever  bank  smasher, 
does  it  not  occur  to  you  that,  in  attempting  to  rob  a  dwelling- 
house  in  order  to  obtain  jewellery  of  great  historical  but  of 
little  intrinsic  value,  I  was  acting  in  a  blundering  and  amateur- 
ish fashion?  Why  should  I,  if,  as  is  stated,  I  robbed  the  Bur- 
lington Safe  Deposit  of  a  large  sum  only  a  week  ago  ?  Gentle- 
men"— he  leant  forward — "you  may  accept  as  a  fact  that  I  did 
rob  the  Burlington !" 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  court  and  a  sudden  hum  of  noise. 
Up  in  the  public  gallery  a  girl  who  had  sat  through  the  two 
days  of  trial,  following  every  word  with  tense  interest,  began 


76  THE  BLACK 

twisting  her  handkerchief  into  a  tighter  ball,  her  heart  beating 
a  little  faster. 

"You  need  not  and  should  not  make  any  statement  incrimi- 
nating to  yourself,"  the  judge  was  warning  the  tall  man  in  the 
dock. 

"Nothing  I  have  said  will  or  can  incriminate  me,"  said  Jim 
quietly.  "I  am  merely  asking  the  jury  to  accept  the  hypothesis 
that  I  am  an  expert  burglar,  in  order  that  they  may  judge  the 
probability  of  my  breaking  into  the  house  in  Cranfield  Gardens. 
The  police  have  insisted  that  I  am  responsible  for  these  bur- 
glaries. So  far  as  the  laws  of  evidence  would  allow  them,  they 
have  enveloped  my  life  in  a  cloud  of  suspicion.  Let  me  clarify 
the  air,  and  admit  that  I  am  The  Black,  without  specifying  for 
which  of  these  many  burglaries  I  am  responsible. 

"Was  the  Blackheath  robbery  typical  ?  Was  there  anything 
to  gain,  any  necessity  ?  Is  it  not  more  likely  that  the  story  of  the 
telephone  call  was  true,  and  that  I  was  arrested  by,  let  us  say, 
the  honest  error  of  that  admirable  officer  Inspector  Mar- 
borne?" 

Here  he  left  the  case  to  the  prosecuting  counsel  and  the 
judge.  It  was  the  latter  whose  speech  counted. 

"I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Justice  Lovin, 
"that  the  accused  James  Morlake  is  a  man  of  criminal  antece- 
dents. I  have  less  doubt  that  he  is  the  burglar  who  has  gained 
unenviable  notoriety  as  The  Black.  But  the  least  doubt  of  all 
in  my  mind  concerns  his  guilt  in  the  charge  which  has  been 
brought  against  him  in  this  court  and  in  this  present  case.  The 
police  evidence  has  been  most  unsatisfactory.  I  am  not  satisfied 
that  either  Marborne  or  Slone,  who  gave  evidence,  told  the 
whole  truth.  There  was  here  almost  convincing  proof  of  what 
is  called  in  America  a  'frame-up' — in  other  words,  concocted 
evidence  designed  to  deceive  the  court  and  to  secure  a  convic- 
tion. I  shall  therefore  direct  you  to  return  a  verdict  of  not 
guilty.  I  will  add  .  .  ."  He  turned  his  stern  eyes  to  the  prisoner. 

"I  will  add  that,  if  ever  James  Lexington  Morlake  is  con- 
victed before  me  on  a  charge  of  burglary,  I  shall  send  him  to 
penal  servitude  for  life,  believing  that  he  is  a  menace  to  so- 


THE  TRIAL  77 

ciety,  and  a  man  with  whom  no  honest  or  scrupulous  man  or 
woman  should  consort." 

For  a  second  it  seemed  to  the  girl  in  the  gallery  that  Jim 
Morlake  shrank  under  the  terrific  denunciation,  and  his  face 
went  a  shade  paler.  In  an  instant  he  had  recovered,  and,  stand- 
ing erect,  heard  the  formal  verdict  of  Not  Guilty,  and  stepped 
down  to  freedom. 

The  people  made  way  for  him  as  he  passed,  eyeing  him 
curiously.  One  white-haired  man  alone  intercepted  him. 

"Glad  you  got  off,  Morlake." 

Jim  smiled  faintly. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Welling — I  know  you  mean  it.  It  was  a 
frame,  of  course." 

"I  guess  so,"  nodded  Welling  gravely,  and  went  toward  the 
gloomy-faced  Marborne,  who  was  coming  out  of  the  court. 
"Heard  the  judge,  Marborne,  eh?  Pretty  bad,  that?" 

"He  didn't  know  what  he  was  talking  about,  sir,"  said  the 
detective  with  an  air  of  injured  innocence.  "I've  never  been  so 
insulted  in  my  life." 

"And  now  I'm  going  to  insult  you,"  said  Welling.  "You're 
suspended  from  duty;  that  applies  to  you,  Slone.  Attend  the 
C.  C.'s  office  on  Wednesday  and  bring  your  uniform  in  a  bun- 
dle!" 

Jim  had  watched  the  little  scene  interestedly,  and  guessed  its 
significance.  Very  few  people  had  come  out  of  court,  for  the 
next  case  was  a  murder  charge.  The  big  marble  hall  was  almost 
deserted  as  he  slowly  crossed  toward  the  stairs. 

"Excuse  me." 

He  turned  and  met  the  eye  of  the  waiting  girl.  She  was 
plainly  dressed  and  very  pretty,  and  the  gloved  hand  she  held 
out  to  him  trembled  slightly. 

"I'm  so  glad,  Mr.  Morlake !  I'm  so  glad!" 

He  took  her  hand  with  a  half  smile. 

"You  were  in  court  both  days,"  he  said.  "I  saw  you  in 
the  corner  of  the  gallery.  I'm  glad  it  is  over — the  old  gentle- 
man did  not  spare  me,  did  he?" 

She  shivered. 

"No  .    .  it  was  dreadful !" 


78  THE  BLACK 

He  wondered  what  he  ought  to  say  or  do.  Her  friendliness 
and  sympathy  touched  him  more  than  he  dreamed  was  possible. 
He  saw  that  she  was  lovely,  and  he  wanted  to  stop  and  talk 
to  her,  but  he  had  an  uncomfortable  sense  of  shyness. 

"I  hope,"  he  said  gently,  "that  you  will  not  think  too  favour- 
ably of  me.  A  distinguished  criminal  is  very  thrilling,  but  a 
very  bad  object  of  admiration." 

He  saw  the  smile  trembling  at  the  corner  of  her  lips  and 
felt  unaccountably  gauche. 

"I'm  not  hero-worshipping,  if  that  is  what  you  mean,"  she 
said  quietly.  "I'm  just  being — awfully  sorry  for  you !  I  don't 
think  you're  very  sorry  for  yourself,"  and  he  shook  his  head. 

Looking  round,  he  saw  that  a  policeman  was  eyeing  him  curi- 
ously from  the  doorway  of  the  court,  and  in  a  desire  to  shield 
the  girl  from  the  consequences  of  what  might  well  be  a  folly, 
he  suggested : 

"I  think  I'll  go  now." 

It  needed  some  courage  to  say  what  she  had  to  say. 

"Won't  you  come  to  tea  somewhere?"  she  said,  a  little 
breathlessly.  "There  is  a  small  restaurant  in  Newgate  Street." 

He  hesitated. 

"Yes — thank  you,"  he  said. 

"You  know,  you  owe  me  something,"  she  said  as  they  walked 
downstairs. 

"Owe  you?"  he  asked  in  surprise.  "What  do  I  owe  you?" 

"I  once  sent  you  a  very  important  letter,"  said  the  girl. 

He  stared  at  her. 

"You  sent  me  a  letter  ?  What  is  your  name  ?" 

"I  am  Jane  Smith,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER    XIX 
The  Tea  Shop 

HALF  in  amazement,  half  amused,  he  stared  at  her. 

"Jane  Smith  ?"  he  repeated.  "Are  you  the  kdy  who  wrote  a 
letter  warning  me  about  Hamon  ?" 


THE  TEA  SHOP  79 

She  nodded. 

"Do  you  know  him  ?  Is  he  a  friend  of  yours  ?" 

"Oh,  no."  She  shook  her  head  vigorously.  "But  I  have  seen 
him;  he  sometimes  comes  to  the  village  where  I  am  staying 
—to  Creith." 

"Oh,  you  live  at  Creith  ?  I  don't  remember  having  seen  you 
there." 

She  smiled. 

"I  shouldn't  imagine  you  know  a  soul  in  the  village,"  she 
said  drily.  "You're  not  exactly  sociable,  are  you?  And  any- 
way," she  went  on  quickly,  "you're  hardly  likely  to  call  on  peo- 
ple of  our  humble  circumstances." 

The  "restaurant"  proved  to  be  a  tea  shop,  which,  at  this  hour 
of  the  day,  was  almost  deserted,  luncheon  having  been  finished 
and  the  tea  rush  not  having  yet  started.  She  took  a  seat  at  a 
table  in  the  corner,  and  gave  the  order  for  tea  in  such  a  busi- 
nesslike way  that  Jim  Morlake  guessed  she  was  not  unused  to 
domestic  management.  He  wondered  who  she  was,  and  how  it 
came  about  that  he  had  not  noticed  so  strikingly  beautiful  a 
girl. 

"Have  you  lived  at  Creith  long?" 

"I  was  born  there,"  said  Jane  Smith. 

He  ruminated  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then : 

"How  did  you  come  to  know  that  Hamon  was  plotting  this 
frame-up?" 

"I  didn't  know, '.'.  just  guessed,"  she  said.  "A  friend  of  mine 
lives  at  Creith  House,  and  she  has  heard  a  great  deal  about 
Mr.  Hamon." 

Jim  nodded. 

"I  owe  Lord  Creith  something  for  his  good  intentions,"  he 
said,  speaking  half  to  himself  and  half  to  the  girl,  and  smiled 
faintly.  "I  don't  suppose  his  lordship  would  be  very  pleased 
if  I  called  in  person  to  thank  him.  He  has  a  daughter,  hasn't 
he?" 

Jane  Smith  nodded. 

"Somebody  told  me  about  her — a  very  pretty  and  a  very 
wilful  young  lady,  and,  if  I  understand  aright,  somewhat  ro- 
mantic?" 


8o  THE  BLACK 

Jane  Smith's  lips  curled. 

"I  never  heard  that  Lady  Joan  was  romantic,"  she  said,  al- 
most sharply.  "I  think  she  is  a  very  practical,  intelligent  girJ 
— she  is  certainly  pretty,  but  that  is  no  credit  to  her." 

The  tea  came,  and  she  busied  herself  pouring  out  for  him. 
He  watched  her  thoughtfully  until  she  had  finished  and  han- 
ded the  cup  to  him.  Suddenly  her  manner  underwent  a  change. 

"Mr.  Morlake,"  she  said  seriously,  "this  has  been  a  terrible 
lesson  to  you,  hasn't  it  ?" 

"The  trial  ?"  he  asked,  and  nodded.  "Yes,  it  has  been  rather 
a  lesson.  I  underrated  Hamon,  for  one  thing,  and  overrated 
the  genius  of  the  unscrupulous  Mr.  Marborne,  for  another.  It 
was  a  very  crude  and  stupid  attempt  to  catch  me." 

She  was  looking  at  him  steadily,  her  unwavering  eyes  fixed 
on  his. 

"You're  not  going  to  break  the  law  any  more,  are  you,  Mr. 
Morlake?"  she  asked  quietly.  "You've  been  very — very  suc- 
cessful. I  mean  you  must  have  made  a  lot  of  money.  It  isn't  nec- 
essary to  take  any  further  risks,  is  it  ?" 

He  did  not  reply.  There  was  something  about  her  that  was 
familiar  to  him,  something  he  recognised  and  which  yet  evaded 
him.  Where  had  he  seen  her?  Or  was  it  her  voice  he  recog- 
nised ?  Then : 

"I  know  you,"  he  said  suddenly.  "You  were  the  girl  who  was 
knocked  out  by  the  storm !" 

She  went  suddenly  red. 

"Yes,"  she  confessed.  "You  didn't  see  my  face." 

"I  remember  your  voice :  it  is  one  of  those  peculiarly  sweet 
voices  that  are  very  difficult  to  forget." 

He  was  not  being  complimentary  or  offensive,  but  the  colour 
deepened  in  her  face. 

"You  said  you  were  a  visitor,  too.  How  could  you  be  a  visi- 
tor  if  you  live  in  the  village?" 

"Jane  Smith"  recovered  herself  instantly. 

"I  told  a  lie,"  she  said  coolly.  "I  find  lying  is  the  easiest  way 
out  of  most  difficulties.  If  you  must  know,  Mr.  Morlake,  I 
was  in  service  at  the  Hall." 

"A  servant?"  he  said  incredulously. 


THE  TEA  SHOP  Si 

She  nodded. 

"I  am  a  parlourmaid,"  she  said  calmly,  "and  a  very  good 
parlourmaid." 

"Of  that  I  am  sure,"  he  hastened  to  say,  and  then  he  looked 
at  her  hands,  and  she  was  thankful  that  she  was  wearing  her 
gloves.  "So  that  is  how  you  knew,  eh?  Well,  I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you,  Miss  Smith.  Are  you  still  at  the  Hall  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  lost  my  job,"  she  said  mendaciously,  and  added: 
"Through  being  out  so  late  on  the  night  of  the  storm." 

And  then,  her  conscience  beginning  to  prick  her,  she  turned 
the  conversation  to  safer  channels. 

"You  are  not  going  to  be  a  burglar  any  more,  are  you?"  To 
her  amazement,  he  smiled. 

"But  surely  not!"  she  gasped.  "After  your  terrible  escape, 
and  all  that  the  judge  said !  Oh,  Mr.  Morlake,  you  wouldn't 
be  such  a  fool !" 

This  time  he  laughed  aloud. 

"It  is  evident  to  me,  young  lady,  that  you  do  not  estimate  the 
joys  and  thrills  of  a  burglar's  life,  or  you  would  not  ask  me 
so  light-heartedly  to  give  up  what  is  something  more  than  a 
recreation  and  a  means  of  livelihood.  The  judge  was  certainly 
fierce !  But  really,  I  don't  take  much  notice  of  judges  and  what 
they  say.  The  chances  are  that,  by  the  peculiar  system  obtain- 
ing in  England,  I  shall  never  go  before  that  judge — there  are 
half-a-dozen  who  try  cases  at  the  Old  Bailey,  and  possibly,  on 
my  next  appearance,  I  shall  meet  a  kind  and  humanitarian 
soul  who  will  dismiss  me  with  a  caution." 

His  quizzical  eye  and  bantering  tone  awakened  no  response 
in  the  girl.  She  was  troubled,  almost  hurt,  by  his  obduracy. 

"But  isn't  there  anybody" — she  hesitated — "who  could  per- 
suade you?  Somebody  who  is  very  dear  to  you,  perhaps?  A 
relation  or — a — a  girl  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  no  relatives  or  friends  in  the  world,"  he  said ;  "and 
if  that  sounds  pathetic,  I  beg  of  you  to  believe  that  I  feel  no 
particular  sorrow  that  I  am  so  unencumbered.  It  is  very  kind 
of  you,  Miss  Smith" — his  voice  and  his  tone  softened — "and 


82  THE  BLACK 

I  do  appreciate  the  thought  that  is  behind  your  request.  But  I 
must  go  on  in  my  own  way,  because  my  own  is  the  only  way 
to  peace  of  mind.  And  now  I  think  you  have  been  too  long  in 
a  criminal's  company,  and  I'm  going  to  send  you  home.  Are 
you  living  in  London  ?" 

"Yes,  I  live  here — I  mean,  I  have  friends  here,"  she  said, 
somewhat  confused. 

"Then  off  you  go  to  your  friends." 

He  paid  the  bill,  and  they  walked  out  of  the  shop  together. 
Suddenly,  to  his  surprise,  she  turned  and  walked  back  to 
the  shop  again  and  he  followed  her. 

"There  is  a  man  I  don't  want  to  see,"  she  said  breathlessly, 
and,  looking  through  the  window,  he  saw  Mr.  Ralph  Hamon 
striding  savagely  along  the  sidewalk,  and  watched  him  turn 
into  an  office  building,  his  whole  attitude  betraying  the  wrath 
which  the  acquittal  of  James  Morlake  had  aroused. 


CHAPTER   XX 

A  Caller 

RALPH  HAMON'S  business  activities  were  many,  his  interests 
varied.  The  high,  narrow-fronted  office  block  in  which  were 
housed  his  various  enterprises  rejoiced  in  the  name  of 
Morocco  Building,  for  Mr.  Hamon's  interests  were  mainly 
centred  in  that  country.  Here  were  the  head  offices  of  the  Rifi 
Concession,  the  Marakash  Lead  Mines,  Moroccan  Explora- 
tions, and  half-a-dozen  other  incorporated  concerns. 

He  slammed  through  the  outer  office,  his  face  black  with 
anger.  The  trial  he  had  not  attended,  deeming  it  expedient 
to  keep  away  from  the  precincts  of  the  court,  but  the  result  of 
the  case  had  come  through  on  the  tape  machine  at  his  club,  and 
as  the  words  "Not  Guilty"  were  spelt  out  before  his  outraged 
eyes,  Mr.  Hamon's  wrath  had  flamed  to  red  heat. 


A  CALLER  83 

It  was  incredible,  monstrous.  And  yet  he  had  been  warned 
by  Marborne  that  the  case  was  not  going  so  well  against  his 
enemy  as  he  could  have  wished.  The  discovery  by  the  police 
(it  was  not  Marborne  who  had  made  this)  that  a  call  had  been 
put  through  summoning  Morlake  to  Blackheath,  had  made  all 
the  difference  between  conviction  and  acquittal.  So  satisfied 
was  Hamon,  who  knew  little  of  the  processes  of  the  law,  and 
regarded  a  man  as  doomed  from  the  moment  a  policeman's 
hand  fell  upon  his  shoulder,  that  a  conviction  would  follow, 
that  he  scouted  the  possibility  of  Morlake  escaping.  And  now 
the  dreadful  fact  stared  him  in  the  face.  Tim  Morlake  was 
free.  The  old  struggle  was  to  be  continued,  the  old  menace  re- 
vived. 

Mr.  Hamon's  office  had  something  of  the  air  of  a  boudoir, 
with  its  thick  carpet  and  tapestried  furniture.  A  faint  aroma  of 
cedar  hung  in  the  air,  for  he  favoured  the  heavy  perfumes  of 
France.  Pushing  aside  the  accumulation  of  correspondence 
which  his  clerk  brought  in,  he  dismissed  him  with  a  curse. 

"There  are  three  cables  from  Sadi,  sir,"  said  his  secretary, 
standing  at  the  entrance  of  the  room,  ready  to  make  a  more 
hasty  retreat. 

"Bring  them  in,"  growled  Hamon. 

He  read  and,  with  the  aid  of  a  book  he  took  from  his  desk, 
decoded  the  messages,  and  apparently  they  did  not  add  to  his 
pleasure,  for  he  sat  huddled  up  in  his  chair,  his  hands  stuffed  in 
his  pockets,  a  scowl  on  his  face,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  until, 
reaching  out  for  the  telephone,  he  gave  the  number  of  his. house 
in  Grosvenor  Place. 

"Tell  Miss  Lydia  I  want  to  speak  to  her,"  he  said,  and  when, 
after  an  exasperating  delay,  he  heard  her  voice :  "Put  the  con- 
nection through  to  my  study,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "I  want 
to  talk  to  you  privately.  Morlake  has  been  acquitted." 

"Really !"  asked  the  languid  voice. 

"And  cut  out  that  'reahly' !"  he  snarled.  "This  isn't  the  time 
for  any  of  your  fancy  society  stuff!  Get  that  connection 
through." 

There  was  a  click,  and  after  a  few  seconds  her  voice  called 
him  again. 


84  THE  BLACK 

"What  is  wrong,  Ralph?  Does  it  make  much  difference — • 
Morlake  getting  off  ?" 

"It  makes  all  the  difference  in  the  world,"  he  said.  "You've 
got  to  get  at  him,  Lydia.  I  never  thought  it  would  be  necessary, 
but  it  is !  And,  Lydia,  that  trip  of  yours  to  Carlsbad  is  off.  I 
may  have  to  go  to  Tangier,  and  I  shall  want  you  to  come  with 
me." 

He  heard  her  exclamation  of  concern,  and  grinned  to  him- 
self. 

"You  said  you  would  never  ask  me  to  go  back  there,"  she 
said,  almost  plaintively.  "Ralph,  is  that  necessary?  I'll  do  any* 
thing  you  ask  me,  but  please  don't  let  me  go  back  to  that  dread- 
ful house." 

There  was  no  affectation  in  her  voice  now ;  she  was  very  sin* 
cere,  very  earnest,  pleading  almost. 

"I'll  see,"  he  said.  "In  the  meantime,  you  wait  for  me ;  I'll 
be  back  in  half-an-hour." 

He  put  down  the  receiver  and  hastily  ran  through  the  smaller 
pile  of  correspondence  on  his  desk  which  called  for  personal 
attention,  marking  a  letter  here  and  there,  putting  a  few  into 
his  pocket  to  answer  at  his  leisure.  He  was  on  the  point  of 
ringing  for  his  clerk,  when  that  harassed  individual  appeared 
in  the  doorway. 

"I  can't  receive  anybody,"  snapped  Hamon,  seeing  the  card 
in  the  man's  hand. 

"He  says " 

"I  don't  care  what  he  says ;  I  can't  see  anybody.  Who  is  it  ?" 

He  snatched  the  card  from  the  clerk's  hand,  and  read : 

Captain  Julius  Welling. 

Criminal  Investigation  Bureau. 

Ralph  Hamon  bit  his  lip.  He  had  heard  of  Welling  in  a 
vague  way.  Once  or  twice  Marborne  had  made  an  uncom- 
plimentary reference  to  the  Chief  of  the  8th  Bureau,  from 
which  he  gathered  that  Welling  was  both  honest  and  efficient. 
Why  should  Welling  want  to  see  him,  he  wondered. 

"Show  him  in,"  he  said  curtly,  and  Julius  Welling  was 
ushered  into  the  room. 


A  CALLER  85 

Hamon  was  taken  aback  to  find  a  man  much  older  than  he 
had  expected ;  a  mild-looking,  white-haired  gentleman,  with  a 
sHght  stoop  and  a  deferential  manner.  He  looked  less  like'a  po- 
liceman than  any  man  Mr.  Ralph  Hamon  had  seen. 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  Captain  Welling?"  he  said.  "Can  I  be 
of  any  service  to  you  ?" 

"I  thought  I'd  just  call  in,"  said  Julius  gently.  "I  happened 
to  be  passing — you're  very  handily  situated  here,  Mr.  Hamon 
— only  a  few  yards  from  the  Central  Criminal  Court." 

Hamon  shifted  uncomfortably  as  this  dubious  advantage  was 
pointed  out  to  him. 

"I  suppose  you  weren't  in  court  for  the  trial  of  Morlake?" 
said  Julius,  depositing  his  hat  carefully  upon  the  ground  and 
hanging  his  short  umbrella  on  the  edge  of  the  desk. 

"No,"  said  the  other  curtly,  "I  was  not  very  much  interested 
in  the  case." 

"Weren't  you  now  ?"  said  Julius.  "I  had  an  idea  you  were. 
Now,  how  did  I  get  that  into  my  head  ?" 

His  mournful  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  other,  and  Hamon 
grew  uncomfortable  under  the  glance. 

"I  suppose  I  was,  in  a  sense,"  he  admitted.  "This  fellow 
has  been  a  nuisance  to  me  for  years.  And  of  course,  as  you 
know,  I  was  able  to  supply  some  valuable  information  to  the 
police." 

"Not  to  the  police,"  said  Julius,  "but  to  Inspector  Marborne 
— which  I  admit,  at  first  glance,  looks  to  be  the  same  thing, 
but  which  isn't.  A  queer  man,  Mr.  Morlake,  don't  you  think?" 

"All  criminals  are  queer,  I  understand,"  said  Hamon,  and 
the  other  nodded  slowly. 

"All  criminals  are  queer,"  he  agreed.  "Some  are  queerer 
than  others.  And  quite  a  lot  of  people  are  queer  who  aren't 
crirhinals ;  have  you  noticed  that,  Mr.  Hamon?  He  has  a  Moor- 
ish servant — Mahmet ;  and  I  understand  that  he  speaks  Arabic 
rather  well.  For  the  matter  of  that,  you  speak  the  language 
also ;  isn't  that  so  ?" 

"I  speak  the  Moorish  Arabic,  yes,"  said  Hamon  shortly. 

"Dear  me  !"  mused  Gentle  Julius,  gazing  out  of  the  window. 
"Isn't  that  a  remarkable  coincidence  ?  Both  you  men  have  an 


86  THE  BLACK 

association  with  Morocco.  You've  floated  a  number  of  com- 
panies with  a  Moorish  end  to  them,  haven't  you,  Mr.  Hamon? 
Of  course  you  have;  I  needn't  have  troubled  to  ask  you  that 
question,  because  all  the  information  I  require  is  in  the  Stock 
Exchange  Year-book.  The  Marakash  Company  now;  that 
was  to  exploit  some  oil  wells  which  existed  in  the  desert  of 
Hari.  There  was  a  desert,  but  there  was  no  oil,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  and  you  went  into  liquidation." 

"There  was  oil,  but  the  wells  went  dry,"  corrected  Hamon. 

"And  Morlake — was  he  interested  in  Moorish  finances  ?  He 
lived  there  for  some  time,  I  understand.  Did  you  meet  him  ?" 

"I  never  met  him — I  saw  him  once,"  said  the  other,  shortly. 
"I  know  he  lived  there.  But  Tangier  is  the  sink  into  which 
all  the  refuse  of  Europe  flows." 

Julius  agreed  with  a  nod. 

"That  is  so,"  he  said.  "Do  you  remember  the  Rifi  Diamond 
Syndicate  ?  I  think  you  floated  that  about  twelve  years  ago  ?" 

"That  also  went  into  liquidation,"  said  Hamon. 

"I'm  not  thinking  so  much  about  the  company,  and  what 
happened  to  the  company,  as  of  the  shareholders." 

"You  needn't  think  about  them  at  all,  because  I  was  the 
only  shareholder,"  said  Hamon  roughly.  "If  you  have  come 
in  to  make  enquiries  about  my  companies,  Captain  Welling, 
I'd  be  very  glad  if  you  wouldn't  beat  about  the  bush,  but  tell 
me  plainly  what  you  want  to  know." 

"I  want  to  know  nothing,"  Julius  put  out  his  hands  in  a  ges- 
ture of  deprecation.  "I  have  reached  the  age,  Mr.  Hamon,  when 
a  man  loves  to  gossip.  Dear,  dear,  dear!  It  doesn't  seem  so 
many  years  ago  that  I  saw  the  prospectus  of  the  Rifi  Diamond 
Syndicate  and  heard  about  the  wonderful  stones  that  had  been 
taken  out  of  that  mine,  about  forty-five  miles  south-west  of 
Tangier.  Did  you  catch  many  suckers  on  that  ?" 

The  air  of  the  question  was  so  innocent,  the  bland  voice  so 
even,  that  for  a  moment  Hamon  did  not  realise  its  offensive- 
ness. 

"What  do  you  mean — suckers  ?"  he  stormed.  "I  tell  you  none 
of  the  shares  were  issued,  or,  if  they  were,  none  were  taken  up. 
Not  a  penny  came  from  the  public.  And  if  you  doubt  my  word, 


A  VOLUME  OF  EMERSON  87 

you  can  see  the  books.  An  article  appeared  in  one  of  the  Lon- 
don financial  papers,  attacking  the  Syndicate  and  calling  into 
question  the  bona-fides  of  the  vendors,  and  sooner  than  have 
the  slightest  scandal  attaching  to  my  name,  I  washed  my  hands 
of  the  whole  affair." 

"And  not  a  share  was  issued,"  said  Mr.  Welling. 

Hamon's  attitude  was  tense;  he  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
grown  old. 

"Not  a  share,"  he  said  defiantly. 

Julius  Welling  sighed,  gathered  up  his  umbrella  and  hat, 
and  rose  stiffly  to  his  feet. 

"Gracious  me !"  he  said  in  his  mild  way.  "Then  the  whole 
thing  is  an  inexplicable  mystery !  For,  if  no  shares  were  issued, 
why  is  James  Morlake  on  your  trail,  Hamon?  Why  for  ten 
years  has  he  been  robbing  banks  ?  Why  is  he  a  burglar  ?" 

Julius  walked  to  the  door,  opened  it  and  turned  for  his  final 
shot. 

"Ever  meet  a  sailor  on  the  Portsmouth  Road,  Hamon  ?"  he 
drawled,  and,  as  the  man  staggered  under  the  shock:  "You 
don't  meet  them  often  nowadays ;  they  go  by  railroad !  It  is 
safer :  there's  less  chance  of  being  clubbed  to  death  on  the  cars 
than  on  the  lonely  Portsmouth  Road.  Think  that  over !" 


CHAPTER  XXI 
A  Volume  of  Emerson 

How  much  did  the  old  man  know,  he  wondered.  Had  Morlake 
told  him  ? 

His  mind  went  back  to  a  sunny  day  in  Morocco,  and  to  two 
men  who  rode  on  mule  back  across  the  desert  toward  the  blue 
line  of  the  Rifi  Hills.  He  had  been  one  of  these ;  his  guest,  a 
man  without  a  name,  had  been  the  other ;  and  as  they  climbed  a 
sandy  slope,  a  young  man  had  come  riding  toward  them  at  a 


88  THE  BLACK 

gallop  and  had  drawn  rein  to  watch  them  after  they  had  passed. 
It  was  the  first  time  Hamon  had  ever  seen  James  Lexington 
Morlake. 

And  he  remembered  that  he  had  had  a  wild  and  insensate 
impulse  to  turn  upon  the  man  who  was  looking  after  them,  and 
shoot  him  down.  It  was  one  of  those  atavistic  urges  which  come 
to  civilised  men  whose  animal  instincts  had  not  wholly  atro- 
phied. The  watcher  stood  for  danger — Ralph  Hamon  brought 
his  hand  mechanically  to  his  hip  where  a  gun  had  hung,  and 
then,  with  an  effort,  he  merged  from  the  tangle  of  his  dreams 
and  went  out  to  the  office,  to  find  his  bored  secretary  waiting. 

"I  am  going  now,"  he  said  gruffly.  "Come  to  my  house  to- 
morrow morning :  I  shall  not  be  at  the  office  all  day.  Bring  any 
personal  letters  and  cables." 

He  had  forgotten  another  person  who  was  waiting,  until 
he  was  nearly  home. 

"You  told  me  you  were  coming  straight  back,"  said  Lydia 
furiously,  for  patience  did  not  appear  amongst  her  known  vir- 
tues. "I  have  a  dinner  engagement  with  Lady  Clareborough.  I 
can  give  you  five  minutes." 

She  was  resplendent  in  evening  dress,  and  he  looked  at  her 
stupidly. 

"You  can  give  me  five  minutes,  can  you  ?  Well,  I  guess  that'll 
be  long  enough,"  he  said.  "Lydia,  you  don't  know  this  man, 
Morlake?" 

"Morlake?"  she  said  wearily.  "Haven't  we  finished  with 
him?" 

"The  question  is,  whether  he  has  finished  with  me,"  said 
Hamon. 

The  hand  that  brushed  back  his  scant  locks  trembled  slightly. 

"That  is  the  question — whether  he's  finished  with  me. 
You've  got  to  get  acquainted  with  that  man.  I  don't  care  what 
money  you  spend ;  I  don't  care  how  you  get  to  know  him.  You 
can  see  him  as  soon  as  you  like.  But  I  want  to  patch  up  some 
sort  of  peace  with  him,  and  I  think  you're  more  likely  to  do  the 
trick  than  I  am.  You're  clever,  and  you've  a  good  invention. 
He  may  be  the  sort  of  man  who'll  fall  for  a  woman  like  you—- 
there are  very  few  men  who  wouldn't,"  he  said. 


A  VOLUME  OF  EMERSON  89 

She  sighed  with  elaborate  patience. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'fall  for  me'  ?  Do  you  mean  that  he'd 
marry  me,  or  fall  in  love  with  me,  or  what  ?" 

"I  don't  care  what  he  does  so  long  as  you  can  persuade  him 
to  cut  out  this  little  vendetta  of  his." 

"Won't  the  law  cut  it  out?"  she  asked  significantly.  "I  read 
the  account  of  the  trial  and  the  judge's  remarks,  and  it  seems 
to  me  that  you're  going  to  give  yourself  a  lot  of  trouble.  Be- 
sides, Ralph,  I  do  not  intend  jeopardising  the  position  I've 
won  for  myself  by  making  up  to  a  convicted  burglar — he's  as 
good  as  convicted.  I  have  my  friends  to  think  of." 

There  was  a  steely  look  in  his  eye  as  he  interrupted  her. 

"Go  to  your  dinner,  my  good  girl,"  he  said  harshly.  "I 
thought  you'd  got  that  social  bug  out  of  your  head." 

She  opened  her  mouth  to  retort,  but  the  suppressed  malign- 
ity in  his  glare  silenced  her. 

Lydia  Hamon  knew  when  to  quit. 

Ralph  Hamon  was  a  rich  man,  with  the  soul  of  a  miser.  He 
was  the  kind  that  treasures  odd  scraps  of  useless  things,  in  ths 
hope  that  one  day  they  may  come  in  handy.  His  wardrobe  over- 
flowed with  ancient  and  almost  threadbare  clothing  that  he 
would  not  give  away.  It  was  his  practice  in  his  own  home  to 
shed  himself  of  the  immaculate  attire  in  which  he  appeared  in 
public,  and  take  a  little  further  wear  out  of  clothing  which  had 
already  rendered  more  than  its  normal  service.  He  never  wasted 
a  scrap  of  paper  if  writing  space  was  left  upon  it;  and  when 
people  wrote  to  him  on  double  sheets,  he  invariably  tore  off 
that  which  had  not  been  used  and  employed  it  for  note-making. 

Jim  Morlake  had  vividly  illustrated  this  weakness  when  he 
told  him  the  parable  of  the  monkey  and  the  gourd.  Not  only 
was  it  a  weakness,  but  it  promised  to  be  fatal.  All  that  was  sane 
in  Ralph  Hamon  told  him  to  make  a  fire  of  one  scrap  of  paper 
that  was  in  his  possession ;  and  yet,  though  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  a  dozen  times,  he  was  physically  incapable  of  applying  a 
match  to  its  corner. 

The  library  where  he  worked  was  on  the  first  floor  of  the 
house  in  Grosvenor  Place,  and  looked  out  upon  a  dreary  court- 


90  THE  BLACK 

yard  and  the  roofs  of  a  string  of  garages.  Though  he  was 
nc  great  reader,  three  of  the  walls  were  covered  with  book- 
cases filled  with  conventional  volumes.  Any  student  of  human 
nature  would  have  known  that  the  books  had  been  "furnished" 
without  any  respect  to  their  literary  quality.  There  was  the 
inevitable  twelve  volumes  of  Scott,  the  usual  encyclopaedias, 
the  sets  of  mid- Victorian  authors'  works.  They  were  bound  in 
harmony  with  the  room,  and  their  exterior  satisfied  the  eye  of 
the  financier,  even  if  their  contents  made  no  appeal  to  him. 

There  was  one  book,  however,  which  he  had  often  occasion 
to  take  down  from  a  narrow  section  of  the  bookshelf  covered 
by  glass  doors.  In  this  protected  area  was,  amongst  other 
works,  a  volume  of  Emerson's  Essays,  a  somewhat  portly  col- 
lection flanked  by  Hazlitt  and  volumes  of  Addison's  "Spec- 
tator." Slipping  the  room  door  bolt  into  its  socket  and  drawing 
the  curtains,  Hamon  opened  the  case  and  took  this  handsome 
volume,  which  was  heavier  than  a  book  should  be,  for  he  had  to 
use  both  hands  to  lift  it  from  the  shelf  and  carry  it  to  the  table. 

Even  now  it  might  be  mistaken  by  the  uninitiated  for  an 
ordinary  volume,  for  the  binding  was  skilfully  imitated  and 
even  the  marbled  edge  of  the  leaves  had  been  reproduced. 
Selecting  a  key  from  a  bunch  which  he  carried  at  the  end  of 
a  long  chain  in  his  pocket,  Hamon  thrust  it  between  the  cover 
and  the  "pages"  and  turned  it,  and,  pulling  back  the  cover,  he 
disclosed  a  shallow  box  half  filled  by  papers.  The  book  was  of 
solid  armoured  steel,  and  was  the  repository  for  such  papers 
as  Hamon  wished  to  have  near  him. 

One  of  those  he  took  out  and  laid  on  the  desk,  looking  down 
at  the  closely  written  statement  it  contained.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  words  he  read  but  was  to  his  disadvantage.  There  was 
imprisonment  and  possibly  death  in  every  line.  There  was  not 
one  word  that  did  not  damn  him,  body  and  soul,  for  what  he 
was ;  and  yet,  when  he  took  out  his  matchbox  and  struck  a  light 
with  trembling  fingers,  he  hesitated,  and  finally  flung  the  match 
into  the  fireplace  and  replaced  the  square  paper  in  the  box. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and,  hastily  shutting  down 
the  lid,  he  pushed  the  "book"  back  amongst  its  fellows,  and 
closed  the  glass  door. 


A  VOLUME  OF  EMERSON  91 

"Who  is  there?"  he  asked, 

"Will  you  see  Mr.  Marborne?"  asked  the  servant  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Yes.  Ask  him  to  come  in." 

He  slipped  back  the  bolt  and  went  out  on  to  the  landing  to 
meet  the  disgruntled  detective. 

"Well,  you've  made  a  mess  of  it,  Marborne,"  he  said  sourly. 

"It's  made  a  mess  of  me,  I  can  tell  you,  Hamon,"  said  the 
other.  "I  have  been  asked  to  turn  my  coat  in.  I  wish  I  had  never 
troubled  with  this  damned  Morlake." 

"There's  no  sense  in  bleating,"  said  Hamon  impatiently. 
"What  do  you  mean  by  'turning  in  your  coat'  ?" 

He  took  a  bottle  of  whisky  and  a  syphon  from  a  cupboard 
and  deposited  them  on  his  desk. 

"Welling  told  me  to  do  it,  and  I  expect  I'm  finished.  And, 
anyway,  I  should  have  been  in  bad  odour  after  what  the  judge 
said  about  police  methods.  You've  got  to  find  me  a  job, 
Hamon." 

"Oh,  I  have,  have  I  ?"  sneered  the  other,  pausing  with  a  glass 
in  each  hand.  "I've  got  to  find  you  a  job !  Now  isn't  that  the 
coolest  bit  of  nerve !" 

"I  don't  know  who's  got  the  nerves,  you  or  me,"  said  the  in* 
spector  gruffly,  "but " 

"Don't  let's  quarrel."  Hamon  poured  a  frugal  portion  of 
whisky  into  the  glass  and  set  the  syphon  sizzling.  "I  daresay 
we  can  find  a  place  for  you ;  I  happen  to  want  a  man  in  Tangier 
to  look  after  some  of  my  interests.  It  was  not  I  who  got  you  into 
trouble,  my  friend,  it  was  Mr.  James  Lexington  Morlake." 

"Damn  him !"  said  Marborne,  and  swallowed  the  toast  and 
the  contents  of  the  glass  at  a  gulp. 

"That's  pretty  good  whisky,"  suggested  Hamon. 

"I  hardly  tasted  it,"  was  the  reply. 

Marborne  seated  himself  at  the  desk,  took  out  his  pocket 
book  and  found  a  sheet  of  paper,  which  he  opened. 

"I  have  made  out  a  list  of  my  expenses  in  this  business,"  he 
said.  "Here  they  are." 

He  handed  them  across  to  the  other,  and  Hamon  winced  as 
he  read  the  total. 


92  THE  BLACK 

"That's  a  bit  stiff,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  authorise  you  to  incui 
this  expenditure." 

"You  told  me  to  spend  as  much  as  I  liked,"  said  the  de- 
tective. 

"Why,  that's  nearly  a  thousand !"  spluttered  Hamon.  "What 
am  I — a  child  in  arms  ?" 

"I  don't  care  what  you  are,  you'll  settle  that,"  said  the  man. 
"There's  a  cut  for  Slone." 

"You  seem  to  forget  that  I've  paid  you  money  already " 

Hamon  began,  when  there  was  an  interruption. 

The  butler  came  to  the  door  and  whispered  something  which 
Marborne  could  not  catch. 

"Here  ?"  said  Hamon  quickly. 

"Yes,  sir,  downstairs." 

Hamon  turned  to  his  visitor.  His  anger  had  departed. 

"He's  downstairs,"  he  said. 

"He — who?"  asked  the  startled  detective.  "Do  you  mean 
Morlake?" 

Hamon  nodded. 

"Yora'd  better  stay  here.  I'll  see  him.  Leave  the  door  ajar.  If 
there's  any  fuss,  come  down." 

Jim  Morlake  was  waiting  in  the  hall,  and  Hamon  greeted 
lairn  with  the  greatest  cordiality. 

"Come  right  in,  Morlake,"  he  said,  opening  the  door  of  the 
drawing-room.  "I  can't  tell  you  how  pleased  I  am  to  read  that 
you  were  acquitted." 

Jim  did  not  answer  until  he  was  in  the  room  and  the  door  was 
shut. 

"Z've  decided  to  drop  my  nefarious  career,  Hamon,"  he  said, 
coming  straight  to  the  point. 

"I  think  you're  wise,"  said  the  other  heartily.  "Now  is  there 
anything  I  can  do " 

"There's  one  thing  you  can  do,  and  that  is  to  give  me  a  cer- 
tain document,  signed  by  the  man  with  whom  I  saw  you  in 
Morocco  some  twelve  years  ago." 

"Suppose  I  had  it,"  said  the  other  after  a  pause,  "do  you 
think  I  should  be  fool  enough  to  give  it  to  you,  to  place  my — 
my  liberty  in  your  hands  ?" 


AVOLUMEOFEMERSON  93 

"I  would  give  you  ample  time  to  get  out  of  the  country,  and 
I  would  agree  not  to  support  the  charge  made  in  that  document. 
And  without  my  support  and  my  evidence,  the  case  against  you 
would  fall  to  the  ground.  At  any  rate,  you  would  have  ample 
time  to  get  to  another  country  " 

Hamon  laughed  harshly. 

"I've  no  intention  of  leaving  England,"  he  said,  "and  cer- 
tainly not  now,  on  the  eve  of  my  wedding.  I  am  marrying  Lady 
Joan  Carston." 

"She  has  my  sympathy."  said  Jim.  "Isn't  she  Lord  Creith's 
daughter  ?" 

Hamon  nodded. 

"She'll  not  marry  you  without  knowing  something  about 
you." 

"She  knows  everything  about  me  that  she  should  know." 

"Then  I  must  tell  her  a  little  that  she  shouldn't,"  said  Jim. 
"But  your  matrimonial  adventures  are  entirely  beside  Jhe 
point.  I've  come  to  give  you  a  chance,  and,  incidentally,  to  save 
myself  a  lot  of  trouble  and  the  serious  consequences  which 
would  follow  a  certain  line  of  action  on  my  part.  I  want  that 
document,  Hamon." 

Again  Hamon  laughed. 

"You're  chasing  the  wind,"  he  said  contemptuously.  "And 
as  to  this  precious  document,  it  has  no  existence.  Somebody 
has  been  jollying  you  and  playing  upon  your  well-known  sim- 
ple heart.  Now  listen,  Morlake :  can't  we  settle  our  differences 
like  gentlemen  ?" 

"I  could  settle  my  differences  like  a  gentleman,"  said  Jim, 
"because  I  happen  to  have  been  born  that  way.  But  you'll  never 
settle  yours,  except  like  a  cheap,  swindling  crook  who  has 
climbed  over  ruined  homes  to  his  present  heights  of  prosperity. 
This  is  your  last  chance,  and  possibly  mine.  Give  me  that  state- 
ment, and  I  will  let  up  on  you." 

"I'll  see  you  in  hell  first,"  said  the  other  savagely.  "Even  if 
I  had  it — which  I  haven't " 

Jim  nodded  very  slowly  and  thoughtfully. 

"I  see.  The  monkey's  hand  remains  in  the  gourd ;  he's  top 


94  THE  BLACK 

greedy  to  let  go."  He  turned  to  the  door  and  raised  a  solemn 
forefinger.  "I  warned  you,  Hamon,"  he  said,  and  went  out. 

Hamon  closed  the  door  on  him  and  went  up  the  carpeted 
stairs  to  the  library. 

"Well,  our  friend  is  still  truculent,"  he  said,  but  he  spoke  to 
an  empty  room. 

Marborne  had  gone.  Hamon  rang  the  bell  for  the  butler. 

"Did  you  see  Mr.  Marborne  go?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,  he  went  a  few  seconds  ago — in  fact,  just  before 
you  came  from  the  drawing-room.  He  seemed  rather  in  a 
hurry." 

"That  is  very  strange,"  said  Hamon,  and  dismissed  the  ser- 
vant. 

Then  he  saw  the  sheet  of  paper  on  the  desk  with  its  scribbled 
message. 

//  you  won't  pay  my  bill,  perhaps  you'll  pay  a  bigger  one  [it 
read]. 

Hamon  scratched  his  chin.  What  was  the  meaning  of  that 
cryptic  message?  Written,  he  noticed,  on  his  best  notepaper. 
Evidently  Marborne  was  piqued  about  the  questioning  of  his 
account,  and  had  gone  away  in  a  fit  of  temper.  Hamon  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  sat  down  at  his  desk.  He  had  no  time  to 
worry  about  the  pettishness  of  his  tools. 

Happening  to  glance  round,  he  noticed  that  the  door  of  the 
glass- fronted  bookcase  was  ajar,  and  he  could  have  sworn  that 
he  had  closed  it.  And  then,  with  an  oath,  he  leapt  to  his  feet. 

The  steel  "book"  was  in  its  place,  but  the  title  was  upteide 
down.  Somebody  had  moved  it.  He  pulled  it  down  and  tried  the 
lid,  and,  to  his  horror,  it  opened.  He  had  forgotten  to  lock  it. 

He  turned  over  the  papers  with  a  trembling  hand.  The  fatal 
statement  was  gone ! 

With  a  howl  of  rage  he  leapt  to  the  door  and  yelled  for  the 
butler. 

"Which  way  did  Marborne  go  ?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"He  went  to  the  right,  sir,  toward  Grosvenor  Square,"  said 
the  butler  from  the  bottom  of  the  stair. 


A  VOLUME  OF  EMERSON  95 

"Get  me  a  taxi — quick !" 

Hamon  went  back  into  his  room,  replaced  the  papers  that 
he  hacj  tossed  from  the  box,  locked  it  and  pushed  it  between  the 
books.  A  minute  later,  a  taxicab  was  taking  him  to  Mr.  Mar- 
borne's  lodgings. 

Marborne  had  not  returned,  the  landlady  told  him,  and  had 
only  that  moment  telephoned  through  to  say  that  he  would  not 
be  coming  back  that  night,  as  he  might  be  leaving  for  the  Con- 
tinent. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  do,  and  that  was  to  go  straight 
to  Scotland  Yard.  The  man  was  still  a  police  officer,  and  would 
probably  report  to  headquarters  sooner  or  later.  He  had  the 
good  fortune  to  find  Welling,  and  the  old  man  seemed  in,  cic 
wise  surprised  at  the  visit. 

"You  want  to  see  Marborne,  eh  ?  I'm  afraid  he's  not  on  duty. 
I'm  even  more  afraid  that  he  will  never  be  on  duty  again,"  said 
Julius.  "Is  it  anything  important?" 

"Will  he  come  here  at  all — to  report,  I  mean  ?"  asked  Hamon 
breathlessly. 

"He's  certain  to  come,"  said  the  old  man.  "In  fact,  he  has  a 
very  pressing  engagement  with  the  Chief  Commissioner  to- 
morrow morning." 

"Has  he  any  friends  ?  Where  does  Slone  live  ?" 

Julius  Welling  adjusted  his  glasses  and  looked  keenly  at  his 
viiitor. 

"You're  in  a  great  hurry  to  find  him ;  is  anything  wrong  ?" 
he  asked. 

"Yes — no.  Nothing  of  great  importance  to  anybody  but  my- 
self— and  Marborne." 

"Indeed !"  said  Julius  politely. 

He  opened  a  book  and  found  Slone's  address,  which  he 
wrote  on  a  piece  of  paper  for  the  visitor. 

"I'm  greatly  obliged  to  you,  Captain  Welling.  I  didn't  ex- 
pect you'd  take  this  trouble,"  said  Hamon. 

"We  always  do  what  we  possibly  can  for  members  of  the 
public,"  said  Julius  in  a  hushed  voice. 

No  sooner  had  his  visitor  left  than  he  picked  up  the  auto- 
matic telephone  and  switched  to  the  hall. 


96  THE  BLACK 

"A  man  named  Hamon  is  coming  down,"  he  said  briskly. 
"Tell  Sergeant  Lavington  to  tail  him  up  and  not  to  lose  sight 
of  him.  I  want  to  know  where  he's  going,  and  what  the  trouble 
is." 

He  put  down  the  telephone  and  rubbed  his  thin  hands  gently 
together,  a  far-away  look  in  his  eyes. 

"And  I  think  there  is  trouble,"  he  said,  addressing  the  ceil- 
ing;  "bad  trouble." 


CHAPTER   XXII 

Welcome  Home 

JIM  MORLAKE  had  never  driven  quite  so  slowly  as  he  did  on 
his  way  home  to  Wold  House.  He  could  well  imagine  that  Sus- 
sex society  had  been  shocked  to  its  depths.  The  vicars  and  the 
churchwardens,  the  squires  and  squireens,  the  heads  of  noble 
houses  who,  on  the  strength  of  their  neighbourship,  had  offered 
him  their  hospitality,  the  villagers  themselves,  sticklers  for 
propriety,  would  regard  his  arrest  and  the  judge's  remarks  as 
something  cataclysmic.  He  maintained  a  considerable  style  in 
the  country.  His  house  was  a  large  one ;  he  employed  butler 
and  housekeeper,  a  dozen  maids,  cooks  and  the  like,  and  he  had 
never  been  quite  sure  of  the  number  of  gardeners  who  were  on 
his  pay  roll. 

He  smiled  as  he  thought  of  the  effect  his  appearance  at  the 
Central  Criminal  Court  would  have  upon  these  worthy  folk. 
They  were  well  paid  and  excellently  well  treated.  His  butler, 
and  the  butler's  wife,  who  was  housekeeper,  had  grown  tremu- 
lous in  their  gratitude  for  the  little  services  which  he  had  ren- 
dered them.  What  they  were  thinking  now,  he  could  not  guess, 
as  he  had  had  no  communication  with  Wold  House  since  his 
arrest.  He  had  instructed  the  local  bank  manager  to  pay  their 
salaries  and  such  monies  as  were  necessary  to  carry  on  the 


WELCOME  HOME  97 

household,  and  in  response  he  had  received  only  one  letter, 
from  the  gardener,  asking  whether  it  was  his  wish,  in  view  of 
recent  happenings,  that  the  daffodil  bulbs  should  be  planted  on 
the  edge  of  the  wood  as  he  had  ordered. 

The  gates  of  Wold  House  were  open ;  he  turned  the  car  into 
the  drive,  and  the  solemn  chauffeur,  who  was  waiting  for  him, 
touched  his  cap  respectfully  and  took  charge  of  the  machine 
with  a  certain  grim  thoroughness  that  was  ominous. 

Jim  passed  into  his  sitting-room.  The  butler  bowed  him  in 
and  opened  the  door  of  the  sitting-room  for  him. 

"Is  everything  all  right,  William?"  asked  Jim,  as  he  slowly 
stripped  his  gloves  and  overcoat  and  handed  them  to  the  man. 

"Everything  is  in  excellent  order,  sir,"  said  Mr.  William 
Cleaver,  and  then :  "I  should  like,  at  your  earliest  convenience, 
to  have  a  word  with  you,  Mr.  Morlake." 

"As  soon  as  you  like,"  said  Jim,  sensing  the  coming  exodus. 
"Take  my  coat  out  and  come  back  immediately." 

The  butler  was  ill  at  ease  when  he  returned. 

"The  truth  is,  sir,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  release 
me  from  my  engagement.  And  that — er — applies  also  to  Mrs. 
Cleaver." 

"You  wish  to  leave  me,  eh?  Don't  you  like  the  job?" 

"It  is  a  very  excellent  situation,"  said  Cleaver  precisely,  but 
withal  nervously ;  "only  I  find  the  country  does  not  agree  with 
me,  sir,  and  I  have  been  offered  an  excellent  situation  in  town." 

"Very  good,"  said  Jim  curtly. 

He  unlocked  the  drawer  of  his  desk,  opened  the  cash-box 
and  took  out  some  money. 

"Here  is  your  salary  to  date." 

"When  would  it  be  convenient  for  me  to  go?"  asked  the 
butler. 

"Now,"  was  the  laconic  reply.  "There  is  a  train  to  your  be- 
loved 'town'  in  an  hour,  by  which  time  you  will  be  out  of  this 
house.  You  understand,  Cleaver?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  discomfited  servant.  "There  have  been 
other — er — applications,  but  I  have  refused  to  deal  with  them." 

"I  see."  Jim  nodded.  "Send  in  the  eager  applicants,  please." 

First  came  the  cook,  a  stout  woman  but  genteel  to  her  finger- 


98  THE  BLACK 

tips,  being  an  earnest  Christian  and  a  member  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church. 

"I  want  to  give  in  my  notice,  sir." 

"Why?"  asked  Jim  bluntly. 

"Well,  the  fact  is,  my  niece  is  ill  and  I  want  to  go  to  her." 

"You  mean  you  want  to  leave  at  once  ?" 

"I  don't  want  to  put  you  to  any  inconvenience,"  the  woman 
hastened  to  state,  "and  to  oblige  you " 

"Oblige  nothing,"  said  Jim  Morlake.  "You  will  leave  now. 
If  your  niece  is  ill,  she'll  probably  be  dead  by  the  time  your 
month's  notice  has  expired.  Here  are  your  wages." 

There  came  a  long  procession  of  them:  a  parlour-maid, 
slightly  tearful,  and  obviously  acting  under  the  instructions  of 
her  rigid  parents ;  another,  a  little  self-righteous  and  inclined 
to  lift  her  nose  at  the  very  thought  of  serving  a  criminal ;  last 
came  the  groom  and  the  chauffeur.  Each  offered  a  reason  why 
they  wanted  to  leave  in  a  hurry,  but  only  one  spoke  the  truth. 
Some  had  relatives  ill,  some  had  been  offered  good  situations ; 
one,  at  least,  hinted  at  an  approaching  marriage  and  the  desire 
to  devote  the  time  to  "getting  things  together."  Neither  man 
nor  woman  stated  in  precise  language  why  he  or  she  was  leav- 
ing Wold  House.  None,  until  a  little  kitchenmaid,  smutty  of 
face  and  squat  of  figure,  stood  before  the  desk,  her  big  hands 
on  her  hips. 

"Why  are  you  leaving,  Jessie  ?"  asked  Jim. 

"Because  you're  a  burglar,"  was  the  blunt  reply,  and,  leaning 
back  in  the  chair,  he  shook  with  silent  laughter. 

"I  think  there  is  two  pounds  due  to  you.  Here  are  five.  And 
may  I,  a  real  live  burglar,  salute  you  as  the  only  honest  member 
of  this  little  community  ?  Don't  look  at  that  note  as  though  it 
would  bite  you :  it  hasn't  been  forged  and  it  hasn't  been  stolen." 

At  last  they  had  gone,  all  of  them,  their  corded  trunks  loaded 
upon  a  wagon  which  he  had  had  brought  up  from  the  village 
by  telephone,  and  he  walked  at  its  tail  and,  closing  the  gates 
behind  the  final  load,  returned  to  his  empty  house. 

To  bring  down  Binger  was  worse  than  useless,  besides 
which,  he  needed  him  in  London;  and  Mahmet,  though  an 


WELCOME  HOME  99 

excellent  brewer  of  coffee,  would  certainly  fail  in  all  other 
branches  of  the  culinary  art.  He  wandered  through  the  deserted 
house  from  kitchen  to  attic.  It  was  spotlessly  clean,  and  would 
remain  so  for  a  day  or  two. 

"There's  only  one  thing  for  a  sensible  man  to  do,"  he  told 
himself,  and  that  was  to  go  back  to  London. 

But  he  was  too  much  of  a  fighter  to  shirk  even  the  petty 
challenge  which  his  domestic  staff  had  thrown  out  to  him.  He 
went  down  to  the  lower  regions  and  took  stock  of  the  larder. 
He  sought  bread  and  butter  and  tea.  He  could  have  got  along 
without  either,  but  he  wanted  to  know  just  where  he  stood. 

The  principal  shop  in  the  village  was  Colter's  Store,  which 
supplied  most  things,  from  horse  feed  to  mangles.  As  his  car 
drew  up  before  the  shop,  he  saw  through  the  window  an  ex- 
cited young  man  pointing,  and  the  bearded  Mr.  Colter  emerged 
from  his  tiny  office  at  the  end  of  the  counter.  Jim  got  down 
from  the  car  at  leisure  and  strolled  into  the  shop. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said.  "I  want  you  to  send  some  bread  up 
to  Wold  House,  and  a  couple  of  pounds  of  butter.  I  think  I 
shall  also  want  some  eggs." 

Mr.  Colter  pushed  his  assistant  out  of  his  way  and  con- 
fronted his  customer  from  the  other  side  of  the  counter,  and 
there  was  a  light  in  Mr.  Colter's  eyes  which  spoke  eloquently 
of  his  righteousness. 

"I'm  not  sending  bread  or  anything  else  up  to  your  house, 
Mr.  Morlake,"  he  said.  "I've  kept  my  hands  clean  of  tainted 
money  all  my  life,  and  I'm  not  going  to  start  truckling  with 
thievery  and  burglary  at  my  time  of  life !" 

Jim  took  the  cigar  from  between  his  lips,  and  his  eyes  nar- 
rowed. 

"Does  that  mean  that  you  refuse  to  serve  me  ?" 

"That's  just  what  it  means,"  said  Mr.  Colter,  glaring  at  him 
through  his  powerful  spectacles.  "And  I'll  tell  you  something 
more,  Mr.  Morlake :  that  the  sooner  you  take  your  custom  and 
yourself  from  Creith,  the  better  we  shall  like  it." 

Jim  looked  round  the  store. 

"You  do  a  fairly  big  trade  here,  don't  you,  Colter  ?"  he  asked. 


ioo  THE  BLACK 

"An  honest  trade,"  said  Mr.  Colter  emphatically. 

"I  mean,  this  business  is  worth  something  to  you  ?  I'll  buy  it 
from  you." 

Mr.  Colter  shook  his  head,  and  at  that  moment  his  stout  part- 
ner, who  had  been  a  silent  audience  of  the  encounter,  emerged 
from  the  door  leading  into  the  parlour. 

"We  don't  want  your  money ;  we  neither  sell  nor  buy,"  she 
said  shrilly.  "It's  quite  enough  to  have  burglars  living  like 
gentlemen,  without  their  trying  to  corrupt  decent,  honest, 
God-fearing  people." 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  there's  somebody  you  fear,"  said  Jim,  and 
walked  out  of  the  house. 

His  bank  was  almost  opposite,  and  bankers  have  few  preju- 
dices. 

"Glad  to  see  you  got  out  of  your  trouble,  Mr.  Morlake," 
said  the  manager  briskly.  "By  the  way,  the  police  examined 
your  account — you  know  that  ?" 

"And  failed  to  find  any  connection  between  my  various  rob- 
beries and  my  unbounded  affluence,"  smiled  Jim.  "Now  listen, 
friend :  the  last  time  I  was  here,  you  were  trying  to  induce  me 
to  take  an  interest  in  village  house  property.  I  notice  that  tht 
store  next  to  Colter's  is  empty." 

The  manager  nodded. 

"It  fell  in  under  a  mortgage.  The  owner  tried  to  run  a  garage, 
but  Creith  doesn't  lie  on  the  road  to  anywhere,  and  he  went 
broke  in  a  month.  Do  you  want  to  buy?" 

"Name  a  price,  and  let  it  be  reasonable.  Imagine  you're  ne- 
gotiating with  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  forget 
that  I  am  an  opulent  burglar,"  said  Jim. 

An  hour  later,  he  walked  out  of  a  lawyer's  office  the  propri- 
etor of  the  store. 

At  ten  o'clock  that  night  there  arrived  from  London  a  young 
and  energetic  man. 

"I  'phoned  the  Grocers'  Association  for  you,  and  they  tell 
me  that  you're  something  of  a  live  wire." 

"Undoubtedly  I  am,"  said  the  youth  immodestly. 

"There's  a  store  next  to  Colter's  in  the  village.  I  want  you  to 
take  charge  of  that  iO-morrow  morning ;  get  in  carpenters  and 


WELCOME   HOME  101 

painters,  and  stock  it  with  every  article  that  Colter  sells.  Mark 
down  all  the  prices  twenty-five  per  cent,  below  his.  Get  a  van 
and  beat  up  the  country  for  custom.  If  he  lowers  his  price,  you 
lower  yours,  you  understand  ?  But  anyway,  keep  it  a  standard 
twenty-five  under." 

"That'll  cost  money,"  said  the  young  man. 

"You  probably  have  never  heard  of  me.  My  name  is  Mor- 
lake,  and  I  am  by  profession  a  burglar.  My  capital  is  therefore 
unlimited,"  said  Jim  soberly.  "If  there  is  any  need  to  bring 
new  capital  into  the  business,  just  notify  me  and  I'll  take  my 
gun  and  a  bag  and  raise  debentures  at  the  nearest  bank." 

He  had  biscuits,  tea  and  a  large  slice  of  ham  for  dinner ;  for 
supper,  he  had  biscuits  and  tea  without  the  ham ;  and  in  the 
morning,  when  he  went  in  search  of  a  breakfast  menu,  he  re- 
jected all  other  combinations  than  tea  and  biscuits.  It  was  a 
little  monotonous,  but  satisfactory.  In  his  shirt  sleeves  he 
swept  his  room  and  the  hall,  made  his  own  bed,  and  scrubbed 
down  the  broad  steps  at  the  front  of  the  house.  He  began  to 
sympathise  with  the  housemaids  who  had  left  him. 

All  day  long,  strange  trolleys  had  been  dashing  into  the  vil- 
lage, and  a  small  army  of  carpenters  and  painters  from  a 
neighbouring  town,  men  who  thought  it  no  disgrace  to  work 
for  sinners,  but  rather  prided  themselves  upon  the  distinction 
of  being  in  the  employ  of  a  gentleman  who  had  figured  at  the 
Old  Bailey,  were  working  at  top  speed,  to  convert  the  drab  and 
uninhabitable  garage  into  a  store.  The  live  wire  was  tingling. 
Stocks  were  arriving  every  hour.  Mr.  Colter  stood  before  his 
door,  one  hand  in  the  pocket  of  his  apron,  the  other  fingering 
his  beard. 

"It  will  be  a  nine  days'  wonder,"  he  said  to  an  audience  of  his 
neighbours.  "These  here-to-day-and-gone-to-morrow  people! 
Why,  I've  had  competition  and  beat  'em  this  past  thirty  years !" 

By  the  afternoon  the  printing  had  been  delivered,  and  the 
neighbouring  villages  learnt  of  sensational  and  permanent 
reductions  in  the  price  of  almost  every  commodity.  Mr.  Colter 
went  to  the  police  station  to  seek  legal  advice,  and  was  referred 
to  a  lawyer  by  the  police  sergeant,  who  wasn't  quite  sure  of  his 
ground,  and  certainly  had  no  knowledge  of  the  legal  aspect  of 


102  THE  BLACK 

this  undercutting  process.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
had  ever  paid  a  penny  to  a  lawyer,  but  the  occasion  demanded 
extraordinary  expenditure,  and  it  did  not  seem  to  Mr.  Colter 
that  he  received  value  for  his  money  when  he  was  told  that  he 
could  do  nothing. 

"To  talk  about  conspiracy  is  absurd,"  said  the  man  of  law. 
"There  is  nothing  to  prevent  this  new  fellow  from  giving  his 
goods  away." 

"But  a  burglar's  money  is  behind  this  scandalous  business !" 
wailed  Mr.  Colter. 

"If  it  was  a  murderer,  it  would  make  no  difference,"  said 
the  lawyer  with  satisfaction. 

Colter,  after  consultation  with  his  wife,  put  on  his  coat  and 
went  up  to  Wold  House.  He  found  Jim  in  the  hall,  sitting  on  a 
stair  with  an  array  of  silver  at  his  feet  which  he  was  polishing. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Jim  politely,  and  Mr.  Colter  looked  round. 
"You  can  sit  on  the  floor,  or  you  can  go  up  one  stair  higher  than 
me  and  sit  there.  I  can  hear  you  quite  well,  and  it  isn't  neces- 
sary that  I  should  see  your  face." 

"Now  see  here,  Mr.  Morlake,  I  think  this  business  has  gone 
a  bit  too  far.  You  know  you're  taking  the  bread  and  butter  out 
of  my  mouth  ?" 

"I  know  you  denied  me  those  self-same  commodities,"  said 
Jim,  "and  others,"  he  added. 

"I  am  going  to  his  lordship  to-morrow.  I  am  going  to  see 
if  the  Earl  of  Creith  will  allow  one  of  his  neighbours  to  be 
robbed  of  his  livelihood.  Not  that  you  will,"  said  Mr.  Colter. 
"I  have  friends  in  this  neighbourhood  of  forty  years'  standing ! 
I've  got  the  whole  community  behind  me !" 

"You  watch  'em  walk  in  front  of  you  when  the  twenty-five 
per  cent,  reduction  comes  into  operation !"  said  Jim. 

"It's  the  most  scandalous  thing  that  has  ever  happened  in 
the  history  of  the  world !"  screamed  the  tradesman. 

"You  have  forgotten  the  Massacre  of  the  Huguenots,"  said 
Jim,  "and  Nero's  lion  parties,  and  a  few  other  indelicate  hap- 
penings." 

Mr.  Colter  went  back  to  the  village,  drew  up  a  statement  of 
his  position,  which  was  printed  by  a  misguided  stationer,  and 


WELCOME  HOME  103 

distributed  it  to  every  house  in  the  village — misguided  be- 
cause the  next  morning  brought  a  letter  from  a  Horsham 
lawyer  demanding  that  the  name  of  the  printer's  legal  repre- 
sentative be  sent  him,  as  his  client  intended  to  commence  an 
action  for  libel. 

Tea  and  dry  biscuits  were  beginning  to  pall  on  Jim,  when  he 
found,  that  same  morning,  an  unexpected  cache  of  eggs.  He 
could  not  be  bothered  to  light  the  kitchen  fire ;  he  found  a  stove 
and  a  supply  of  spirit,  and  this  he  set  up  in  his  somewhat  untidy 
study.  He  had  brewed  the  tea,  and  had  laid  the  table  with  a  copy 
of  the  morning  newspaper,  and  set  about  cooking  the  eggs.  He 
knew  little  about  egg  cooking,  except  that  a  certain  amount  of 
heat,  a  certain  number  of  eggs  and  a  frying-pan  were  requisite. 
The  room  was  grey  with  smoke  and  pungent  with  the  odour  of 
a  burnt  pan  when  the  unexpected  visitor  arrived. 

She  came  through  the  open  door  and  stood  in  the  doorway, 
open-mouthed,  watching  his  primitive  essay  in  cookery. 

"Oh,  what  are  you  doing  ?"  she  asked  in  consternation,  and, 
running  across  the  room,  took  the  smoking  abomination  from 
his  hand.  "You  have  put  no  fat  in  the  pan !"  she  said.  "How 
can  you  expect  to  cook  eggs  without  some  kind  of  grease  ?" 

He  was  speechless  with  amazement.  The  last  person  he  ex- 
pected to  see  at  Wold  House,  in  this  moment  of  crisis,  was 
Jane  Smith.  Yet  Jane  Smith  it  was,  prettier  than  ever  in  her 
plain  blue  suit,  her  big  white  Peter  Pan  collar,  and  the  little 
black  hat. 

"Where  the  dickens  did  you  come  from  ?" 

"I  came  from  the  village,"  she  said,  wrinkling  her  nose  with 
an  expression  of  distaste.  "Phew !  Open  the  window." 

"Why,  don't  you  like  eggs  ?" 

"Did  these  eggs  express  any  wish  to  be  cremated  ?" 

He  made  no  move. 

"I  suppose  you  know " 

"I  know  everything."  She  blew  out  the  spirit  fire  and  put 
down  the  pan,  then,  taking  off  her  coat  and  hat,  she  threw  them 
on  the  sofa.  "I  have  come  to  look  after  you,"  she  said,  "you 
poor  American  waif  I" 


104  THE  BLACK 

CHAPTER   XXIII 

The  New  Housekeeper 

OBEDIENTLY  he  carried  down  the  spirit  lamp,  cups  and  saucers 
and  cracked  teapot  to  the  kitchen,  and  stood  in  awe,  watching 
her  as  she  kindled  a  fire  in  the  big  kitchen  range. 

"Let  me  do  that  for  you,"  he  said. 

"You  ought  to  have  volunteered  hours  ago,"  she  reproached 
him,  "but  if  you  had,  I  shouldn't  have  allowed  you.  You  would 
only  have  made  a  lot  of  smoke " 

"Fire  lighting  is  an  art :  I  never  realised  it  till  now.  Does 
your  mother  know  you're  here  ?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"I  hope  so,"  she  said.  "Mother  is  in  heaven." 

"Your  father?" 

"Father  is  in  London,  which  is  quite  a  different  place.  Look 
in  the  larder  and  see  if  you  can  find  some  lard." 

"That  seems  to  be  the  proper  place  for  it,"  he  said. 

"Have  you  any  milk?"  she  asked,  when  he  returned  with  a 
large  white  and  bulbous  supply. 

"We  have  no  milk,  but  we've  lots  of  preserved  milk." 

"Haven't  you  a  cow  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  not  sure  whether  I  have  or  whether  I  haven't.  I've  really 
never  taken  an  interest  in  the  details  of  my  estate,  but  I'm  under 
the  impression  that  I  am  entirely  cowless." 

"Why  do  you  stay  here  ?"  She  was  sitting  on  her  heels  before 
the  crackling  fire,  looking  up  at  him  curiously.  "Why  didn't 
you  go  back  to  London  ?  You've  got  a  flat,  haven't  you  ?" 

"I  prefer  staying  here,"  he  said. 

"How  lordly!  I  prefer  staying  here."  She  mimicked  him. 
"You're  going  to  starve  to  death  here,  my  good  man,  and 
freeze  to  death  too.  You  ought  to  know  that  the  people  of  Creith 
would  never  consent  to  stain  their  white  souls  by  contact  with 
a  gentleman  with  your  seamy  past !  Get  some  servants  from 
London :  they're  less  particular.  They  have  cinemas  in  London 


THE  NEW  HOUSEKEEPER  105 

that  educate  them  in  the  finger  nuances  of  criminality.  Why 
don't  you  bring  your  man  down — Binger  ?" 

"Binger  ?"  he  said  in  surprise.  "Do  you  know  him?" 

"I've  spoken  with  him,"  she  said.  "When  you  were  in 
durance  I  made  a  call  on  him,  to  see  if  there  was  anything  I 
could  do.  It  required  a  great  deal  of  tact  because  I  wasn't  sup- 
posed to  know  that  you  were  under  arrest.  I  asked  him  where 
you  were,  and  he  said  you  were  'hout.'  " 

"Instead  of  which  I  was  hin !"  laughed  Jim. 

"Hout  or  hin,  he  was  deliciously  diplomatic.  And  I  saw  your 
lAoor,  and  your  beautiful  room.  Did  you  live  in  Morocco?" 

"For  a  short  time,"  he  said. 

She  was  busy  with  the  eggs  for  a  little  while,  and  he  saw  she 
Was  thinking  deeply. 

"Of  course,  you  know  why  this  antagonism  has  sprung  up 
in  the  village  against  you  ?  It  isn't  wholly  spontaneous,  or  due 
to  the  purity  of  Creith's  morals.  A  week  ago,  Mr.  Hamon  came 
down  and  interviewed  most  of  the  leading  tradespeople,  and  I 
believe  he  also  saw  your  butler.  I  know,  because  my  maid,  whOj 
"ives  in  the  village " 

"Your  what  ?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"Maid — it  is  short  for  maiden  aunt,"  she  said,  not  so  much  as 
dropping  an  eyelid.  "My  maiden  aunt,  who  lives  in  the  village 
and  who  is  something  of  a  gossip,  told  me." 

"You  were  here,  then  ?" 

"No,  I  was  in  London  at  the  time.  She  told  me  when  I  came 
back.  There  are  your  eggs." 

"I  couldn't  possibly  eat  three,"  he  protested. 

"It  is  not  intended  that  you  should:  one  is  for  me,"  she 
replied. 

She  went  into  the  hall  and  brought  down  a  bag,  and  extracted 
a  new  loaf  and  a  small  oblong  brick  of  butter. 

"We  will  dine  in  the  kitchen,  because  I  feel  more  at  home 
there,"  she  said.  "And  after  breakfast  I  am  going  to  see  what 
needs  doing.  I  can  only  stay  a  few  hours  every  day." 

"Are  you  coming  to-morrow  ?"  he  said  eagerly. 

She  nodded,  and  he  sighed  his  relief. 

"The  curious  thing  was  that  I  didn't  see  you  come  at  all, 


io6  THE  BLACK 

though  I  was  looking  through  the  window  and  I  had  a  good 
view  of  the  drive." 

"I  didn't  arrive  by  the  road,"  she  said.  "I  discovered  a  little 
foot  bridge  across  the  river  that  joins  Creith  Park  and  your 
meadows.  Naturally,  I  still  retain  a  certain  amount  of  self- 
respect,  so  I  came  furtively." 

He  laughed  at  that. 

"If  you're  trying  to  make  me  believe  that  you  care  two  cents 
what  the  village  is  thinking  of  you,  you're  working  on  a  hope- 
less job,"  he  said.  "What  puzzles  me  is" — he  hesitated — "you 
may  be  a  villager :  I  daresay  you  are ;  in  fact,  you  must  be, 
otherwise  you  wouldn't  know  so  much  about  the  people.  But 
that  you're  a  member  of  the  downtrodden  working  classes,  I 
will  never  believe." 

"Go  and  find  the  carpet-sweeper,"  she  ordered,  "and  I  will 
show  you  that,  if  I'm  not  downtrodden,  I'm  certainly  a  la- 
bourer." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  she  had  hardly  been  there  ten  minutes 
before  she  came  to  the  study,  dressed  ready  to  go. 

"You're  not  going  already !"  he  gasped  in  dismay. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  she  nodded,  "and  you  will  be  good  enough  to 
stay  where  you  are  and  not  attempt  to  follow  me.  And  I  also 
rely  upon  you  that  you  do  not  ask  any  of  your  village  acquaint- 
ances— which,  I  should  imagine,  are  very  few  by  now — who  I 
am  or  who  my  relations  are.  I  want  to  keep  the  name  of  Smith 
unsullied.  It  is  a  fairly  good  name." 

"I  know  of  none  better,"  he  said  enthusiastically.  "Good- 
night, Jane." 

He  held  out  a  hand,  and  was  unaccountably  thrilled  to  see 
the  faint  pink  that  came  to  her  face. 

"There  is  one  favour  I'm  going  to  ask  you  in  return  for  my 
services,  and  it  is  that  you  call  off  your  campaign  of  vengeance ; 
in  other  words,  that  you  leave  poor  Colter  alone.  He  is  acting 
according  to  his  lights,  and  it  isn't  going  to  give  you  any  great 
satisfaction  to  ruin  him." 

"I've  been  thinking  of  that  to-day,"  said  Jim  a  little  rue- 
fully, "and  wondering  exactly  what  I  can  do.  I  don't  like  to 
strike  my  colours  and  leave  the  enemy  triumphant." 


THE  NEW  HOUSEKEEPER  107 

"He's  not  at  all  triumphant :  the  poor  man's  scared  to  death. 
I  can  tell  you  all  his  secret  history.  He  has  been  speculating  in 
oil  shares,  at  the  suggestion  of  Mr.  Hamon  (I  expect  Mr. 
Hamon  has  an  interest  in  the  company)  and  the  poor  man  is  on 
the  verge  of  bankruptcy.  You  have  only  to  open  your  store  and 
run  it  for  a  week,  to  push  him  over  the  edge — plunk !  That  is 
vulgar,"  she  added  penitently,  "but  will  you  think  it  over,  Mr. 
Morlake  ?  I  don't  know  whether  you  can  afford  to  withdraw, 
but  I  think  you  can." 

An  hour  after  the  girl  had  left,  Jim  walked  down  to  the  vil- 
lage and  into  Colter's  Store.  A  very  humble  Mr.  Colter  hastened 
to  discover  his  needs. 

"I  want  bread,  butter  and  eggs,"  said  Jim  firmly.  "I  want 
them  delivered  every  morning,  with  a  quart  of  milk  and  such 
other  commodities  as  I  require." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  humble  Colter.  "This  store  of  yours,  Mr. 
Morlake,  is  going  to  ruin  me — I've  had  three  farmers  here  to- 
day ;  they  are  supposed  to  be  thorough  gentlemen  and  friends 
of  mine,  but  they're  holding  up  their  winter  buying  until  your 
shop  is  open.  They  say  that  isn't  the  reason,  but  I  know  'em !" 

"The  store  will  never  open  so  long  as  I  have  my  eggs,  butter, 
bread  and  milk,"  said  Jim  patiently.  "Is  that  understood?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  fervent  storekeeper,  and  showed  him  to 
the  door. 

That  night  the  young  enthusiast  was  sent  back  to  London 
after  selling  his  stocks  to  Colter  below  cost  price ;  and  when 
Jim  came  down  in  the  morning  and  opened  the  front  door,  he 
found  Mr.  Colter's  boy  sitting  on  the  steps. 

Jane  Smith  came  late  that  morning,  and  something  in  her 
appearance  arrested  his  attention. 

"You've  been  crying,"  he  said. 

"No,  I  haven't.  I've  had  very  little  sleep,  that  is  all." 

"You've  been  crying,"  he  repeated. 

"If  you  say  that  again,  I  won't  stay.  You're  really  annoying, 
and  I  never  thought  you  would  be  that." 

This  silenced  him,  but  he  was  worried.  Had  she  got  into  some 
kind  of  scrape  through  this  escapade  of  hers  ?  He  never  trou- 
bled to  believe  that  she  was  a  housemaid.  Probably  she  was 


io8  THE  BLACK 

some  poor  relation  of  one  of  the  big  families  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. There  were  many  little  villas  and  tiny  half -acre  lot? 
scattered  about  the  countryside. 

They  were  eating  a  rather  dismal  lunch  together  when  he 
asked  her  plainly : 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"Oh,  somewhere  around,"  she  said  vaguely. 

"Do  you  ever  speak  the  truth,  young  woman?" 

"I  was  the  most  truthful  person  in  the  world  until  I " 

She  checked  herself  suddenly. 

"Until  you ?"  he  suggested. 

"Until  I  started  lying.  It  is  very  easy,  Mr.  Raffles." 

"Oh,  by  the  way" — he  remembered  suddenly — "two  of  the 
housemaids  of  this  establishment  came  and  interviewed  me 
this  morning  whilst  you  were  making  the  beds.  They  want  to 
come  back." 

"Don't  have  them,"  she  said  hastily.  "If  you  do,  I  shall  go." 

And,  conscience  stricken  at  her  selfishness,  she  added 
quickly : 

"Yes,  get  them  if  you  can.  I  think  you  ought  to  get  your 
servants  back  as  soon  as  you  possibly  can.  They're  only  fol- 
lowing the  lead  of  Cleaver,  and  most  of  them  will  be  dying  to 
get  back,  because  there's  a  whole  lot  of  unemployment  in  the 
county.  Only — I  should  like  you  to  let  me  know  before  they 
come." 

He  helped  her  to  wash  up  after  lunch,  and  then  went  upstairs 
to  his  study  to  write  some  letters,  whilst  she  laid  his  dinner  be- 
fore she  left.  The  kitchen  stairs  led  into  the  back  hall,  and  he 
was  more  than  surprised,  when  he  turned  a  corner  of  the 
stairs,  to  see  a  girl  standing  in  the  entrance  hall.  He  had  left 
the  door  wide  open,  and  either  he  had  not  heard  her  ring,  or 
she  had  not  taken  the  trouble  to  push  the  bell.  She  was  very 
pretty,  he  saw  at  a  glance,  and  fashionably  dressed,  and  he 
wondered  if  it  was  a  delegation  from  the  women  of  Sussex 
demanding  his  instant  withdrawal  from  the  country. 

Flashing  a  smile  at  him,  she  came  toward  him. 

"You're  Mr.  Morlake,  I  know,"  she  said,  as  he  took  her  hand. 
"I've  seen  your  photograph.  You  don't  know  me." 


THE  NEW  HOUSEKEEPER  109 

"I'm  afraid  I  haven't  that  advantage,"  said  Jim,  and  showed 
her  into  the  drawing-room. 

"I  simply  had  to  come  and  see  you,  Mr.  Morlake.  This  stupid 
feud  of  yours  with  my  brother  mustn't  go  on  any  longer." 

"Your  brother  ?"  he  asked  in  wonder,  and  she  laughed  rog- 
uishly. 

"Now  don't  pretend  that  you  don't  dislike  poor  Ralph  very 
intensely." 

A  light  was  beginning  to  show. 

"Then  you  are  Miss  Hamon  ?"  he  said. 

"Of  course  I'm  Miss  Hamon!  I  came  over  from  Paris  spe- 
cially to  see  you.  Ralph  is  terribly  worried  about  this  frightful 
quarrel  you're  carrying  on." 

"I  suppose  he  is,"  said  Jim  subtly.  "And  you  have  come  all 
the  way  from  Paris  to  patch  up  our  feud,  have  you  ?  Of  course 
you're  Lydia  Hamon.  How  stupid  of  me!  I  remember  you 
years  and  years  ago,  before  the  days  of  your  brother's  pros- 
perity." 

Lydia  Hamon  had  not  the  slightest  desire  to  be  remembered 
years  and  years  ago,  and  she  turned  him  off  that  dangerous 
topic. 

"Now  tell  me,  Morlake,  isn't  it  possible  for  you  and  Ralph 
to  get  together,  as  you  delightful  Americans  say,  and " 

The  door  opened  abruptly,  and  Jane  Smith  came  in.  She  was 
dressed  for  going  home  and  was  pulling  on  her  gloves. 

"I  thought  you  were  in  your  study,"  she  began  and  then  her 
eyes  fell  upon  the  visitor. 

If  the  apparition  of  Lydia  Hamon  startled  her,  the  effect 
on  Lydia  was  staggering.  She  raised  a  pair  of  unnecessary 
lorgnettes  and  surveyed  the  girl  with  a  look  of  horror. 

"Surely  I'm  not  mistaken?"  she  said.  "It  is  Lady  Joan  Car- 
ston!" 

"Damn!"  said  Joan. 


no  THE  BLACK 

CHAPTER   XXIV 
Jim  Learns  Things 

LADY  JOAN  CARSTON  !  Jim  could  not  believe  his  ears. 

"Surely  you  are  mistaken,  Miss  Hamon?"  he  said.  "This 
lady  is  Miss "  He  stopped. 

"This  lady  is  Lady  Joan  Carston,  and  I  am  delighted  to  see 
that  you  are  such  good  friends.  I'm  sure  my  brother's  fiancee 
will  be  only  too  happy  to  help  me  in  my  little  scheme  to  make 
you  and  Ralph  better  friends." 

"Who  is  your  brother's  fiancee  ?"  asked  Joan,  electrified  by 
this  cool  claim. 

"It  is  generally  understood  that  you  are,"  smiled  Lydia 
sweetly. 

"It  may  be  understood  in  lunatic  asylums,  where  many  peo- 
ple are  even  under  the  impression  that  they  are  related  to 
Napoleon  Bonaparte,"  said  Joan  sharply,  "but  it  is  certainly 
not  understood  either  by  me  or  by  my  father.  And  we  should 
be  the  first  to  know." 

Lydia  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  was  trying  to  find  an 
explanation  of  the  girl's  presence  in  this  house  and  from  her 
viewpoint  only  one  explanation  was  possible.  And  then  it  be- 
gan to  dawn  on  her  that  the  house  was  empty,  save  for  these 
two  people,  and  her  attitude,  her  manner  and  her  voice  became 
instantly  stiffened  by  the  shock. 

"I  suppose  your  father  is  here,  Lady  Joan?"  she  asked 
primly. 

"My  father  is  not  at  Creith,"  replied  the  girl,  who  saw  what 
she  was  driving  at.  "Nor  is  my  aunt,  nor  any  of  my  cousins.  In 
fact,  I  have  no  other  chaperone  at  Wold  except  the  kitchen 
stove  and  a  sense  of  my  immense  superiority." 

The  eyebrows  of  the  red-haired  girl  went  up  to  points. 

"I  don't  think  Ralph  would  like  this "  she  began. 

"There  are  so  many  things  that  Ralph  doesn't  like" — it  was 
Tim  who  stepped  into  the  breach  and  saved  Joan  Carston  from 


JIM  LEARNS  THINGS  in 

the  humiliation  of  apologising  for  the  things  she  undoubtedly 
would  have  said — "but  I  shouldn't  bother  to  catalogue  them.  I 
don't  think,  Miss  Hamon,  that  we  need  trouble  Lady  Joan  with 
the  old  family  feud." 

He  turned  to  the  girl  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  am  extremely  grateful  to  you,"  he  said.  "That  is  a  very 
banal  thing  to  say,  but  it  expresses  completely  just  how  I  feel." 

He  expected  to  find  her  embarrassed,  but  she  was  coolness 
Itself,  and  he  marvelled  at  her  self-possession. 

"I  think  you  had  better  go  in  search  of  your  housemaids," 
«he  said  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes,  "and  arrange  for  them  to 
come  to  you  to-morrow  afternoon  at  two  o'clock." 

She  emphasised  the  words,  and  a  weight  rolled  from  his 
heart,  for  he  knew  that  Joan  Carston  would  be  there  to  break- 
fast. 

Lydia  watched  the  girl  as  she  walked  down  the  drive. 

"Then  it  is  true  that  Lady  Joan  is  engaged  to  you?"  she 
asked,  and  Jim's  jaw  dropped.  "She  told  me  so,  but  I  thought 
she  was  being — well,  annoying." 

"Engaged  to  me  ?"  he  gasped.  "Did — did  she  say  so  ?" 

Lydia  smiled  contemptuously. 

"Of  course,  it  wasn't  true,  though  it  might  have  been,  judg- 
ing by  her  indiscretion.  She  is  a  friend  of  yours?" 

"A  great  friend,"  said  Jim  vaguely,  "but  only  in  the  sense 
that  Lady  Bountiful  is  a  friend  of  the  bedridden  villager." 

"You,  of  course,  being  the  bedridden  villager  ?" 

She  forced  a  smile,  but  he  saw  in  her  face  something  of  the 
emotion  she  was  endeavouring  to  suppress,  as  the  object  of  her 
visit  came  back  to  her. 

"Seriously,  Mr.  Morlake,"  she  drawled,  "don't  you  think  it 
is  time  that  your  stupid  quarrel  with  Ralph  came  to  an  end  ?" 

"Do  I  understand  that  you  are  an  ambassador  bearing  olive 
branches  ?"  he  asked,  a  little  amused.  "Because,  if  you  are,  I 
suppose,  like  all  ambassadors,  you  have  something  to  offer  me 
besides  an  intangible  friendship,  and  that  of  a  very  doubtful 
quality." 

She  walked  across  to  the  door  and  closed  it,  and  then,  coming 
nearer,  said  in  a  low  voice : 


ii2  THE  BLACK 

"Ralph  said  that  you  wanted  something  that  he  had — he  no 
longer  has  it !" 

Jim  frowned  down  at  her. 

"Has  he  destroyed  it?" 

"He  no  longer  has  it,"  repeated  the  girl.  "It  is  in  other 
hands." 

He  stared  at  her  incredulously. 

"Do  you  seriously  mean  that  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"Then  how  does  it  come  about  that  your  brother  is  at  large  ?" 
he  asked,  and  she  flamed  up  at  that. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Morlake.  'At  large  ?'  Do 
you  mean  that  my  brother  should  be  in  prison  ?" 

"He  should  be  in  prison,  anyway,"  said  Jim  calmly.  "But  if 
the  document — and  I  take  it  you  are  referring  to  a  certain  docu- 
ment— has  fallen  into  other  hands,  then  most  certainly,  unless 
the  finder  is  a  thief  and  a  blackmailer,  your  brother  should  be 
waiting  his  trial." 

It  was  very  evident  to  him  that  she  had  been  speaking  in 
the  dark,  and  that  she  had  no  idea  of  the  nature  of  the  missing 
paper. 

"What  does  he  want  me  to  do  ?"  he  went  on. 

"He  particularly  wants  your  friendship,"  she  said.  "He 
asked  me  to  tell  you  that  there  is  no  difference  between  you 
which  cannot  be  smoothed  over." 

"In  other  words,  if  the  gentleman  who  has  the  statement  in 
his  hands  brings  it  to  light,  your  brother  wishes  me  to  testify  in 
his  favour?" 

She  hesitated. 

"I  don't  know  whether  that  is  what  he  wishes — perhaps  it  is. 
He  did  not  tell  me  any  more  than  I  have  told  you,  that  the 
something  which  you  wanted  had  passed  out  of  his  hands,  and 
he  asked  for  your  friendship." 

Jim  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out,  trying  to  solve 
the  riddle  she  had  set  him ;  and  all  the  time  there  ran  through 
the  web  of  his  thoughts  the  more  amazing  discovery  that  Jane 
Smith  was  Joan  Carston,  the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Creith, 
and,  from  his  standpoint,  an  unapproachable  person. 


JIM  LEARNS  THINGS  113 

That  was  the  first  of  the  many  surprises  that  awaited  James 
Morlake. 

"I  don't  see  what  I  can  do,"  he  said,  turning  back  to  Lydia. 
"The  feud,  as  you  prefer  to  call  it,  between  your  brother  and 
myself  is  dependent  upon  his  making  reparation.  You  may  tell 
fcim  that." 

"Then  it  is  to  be  war  ?"  she  said,  a  little  dramatically. 

He  smiled,  and  was  serious  again  instantly. 

"Yes,  I'm  afraid  it  is  to  be  war." 

She  bit  her  lip,  thinking  quickly.  Her  instructions  had  beea 
more  or  less  vague,  and  Ralph  Hamon  had  left  to  her  the  actual 
method  by  which  she  would  carry  his  suggestions  into  effect. 
There  was  an  alternative  attitude  for  her  to  take,  and  she  de- 
cided that  the  moment  had  come  to  initiate  the  new  role. 

"Do  you  know  what  this  means  to  me,  his  only  sister  ?"  she 
asked  with  a  little  catch  in  her  voice.  "Do  you  realise  what  it 
means  to  lie  awake  night  after  night,  thinking,  worrying,  ter- 
rified of  what  the  morning  will  bring  forth  ?" 

"I'm  sorry  that  I  don't.  Honestly,  Miss  Hamon,  I  am  not 
sympathetic.  If  it  is  true  that  you  feel  these  misgivings  and 
emotions — well,  that  is  unfortunate." 

He  walked  up  and  stood  squarely  before  her. 

"You  may  take  this  message  to  your  brother,  Lydia  Hamon 
— that  I  am  in  this  to  the  very  end.  I  have  risked  consequences 
more  fearful  than  any  you  can  picture,  and  I  go  on  until  my 
mission  is  completed." 

"A  burglar  with  a  mission !"  she  sneered. 

"Rather  amusing,  isn't  it  ?"  he  said  good-humouredly. 

If  he  had  any  doubts  as  to  her  sincerity,  those  doubts  were 
now  dispelled.  The  woman  was  an  actress  and  a  bad  one ;  she 
could  not  sustain  the  pose  of  distress  at  the  continuance  of  the 
"feud,"  or  hide  the  chagrin  of  her  failure. 

"You've  had  your  chance,  Morlake."  she  said,  the  venom  in 
her  coming  out.  "I  don't  know  what  this  trouble  is  between 
you  and  Ralph,  but  he's  too  clever  for  you,  and  sooner  or  later 
you'll  admit  it.  I'm  sick  of  the  whole  business !  If  Ralph's  a 
crook,  what  are  you  ?  Aren't  there  enough  pickings  in  the  world 
for  both  of  you  ?" 


ii4  THE  BLACK 

"Spoken  like  a  little  lady,"  said  Jim  Morlake,  as  he  showed 
her  to  the  door. 


CHAPTER   XXV 
The  Cablegram 

IN  A  week  a  remarkable  change  had  come  over  Ralph  Hamon. 
There  were  times  when  he  appeared  to  his  sister  to  be  a  little 
old  man.  He  was  greyer,  new  lines  had  appeared  in  his  forbid- 
ding face,  and  he  seemed  to  stoop  more.  Lydia,  wise  in  her 
generation,  did  not  attempt  to  probe  too  deeply  into  the  cause. 
To  her  surprise,  when  she  had  reported  the  result  of  her  inter- 
view with  Morlake,  he  had  not,  to  use  her  own  expression, 
gone  up  in  the  air,  but  had  accepted  her  account  of  the  talk  with 
the  greatest  calmness.  Even  her  little  titbit  about  Joan  Cars- 
ton's  presence  at  Wold  House  had  not  aroused  him. 

She  went  to  his  office  that  day  after  her  interview  with  Jim, 
her  baggage  at  the  station,  her  railway  ticket  and  reservation 
in  her  handbag. 

"I'm  going  back  to  Paris  this  afternoon,"  she  said  airily, 
"and  I  want  a  little  money." 

He  looked  up  at  her. 

"Who  told  you  you  were  going  back  to  Paris?"  he  asked, 
and  her  simulated  surprise  did  not  impress  him.  "You're  stay- 
ing in  London  until  I  ask  you  to  go.  I  told  you  that  a  week 
ago.  It  may  be  necessary  for  us  to  move,  and  move  pretty 
quick." 

"What  is  wrong  ?"  she  asked,  realising  for  the  first  time  the 
immense  seriousness  of  the  position.  "Are  things  very  bad?" 
she  asked. 

"As  bad  as  they  can  be,"  said  Hamon,  and  added :  "for  the 
moment.  You  see,  Lydia,"  he  went  on  in  a  kindlier  tone,  "I 
don't  want  to  be  left  quite  alone  at  this  moment.  You're  part  of 


THE  CABLEGRAM  115 

the  baggage.  And  besides" — he  hesitated — "I  promised  Sadi 
that  I  would  take  you  out  to  Tangier." 

She  did  not  speak  until  she  had  pulled  a  chair  up  to  the  table 
and  sat  down  opposite  him,  her  elbows  on  the  desk,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  his. 

"Have  you  promised  Sadi  anything  more?"  she  asked. 

He  avoided  her  gaze. 

"Five  or  six  years  ago  you  were  very  keen  on  my  living  at 
Tangier,"  she  said.  "Why?  What  have  you  promised  Sadi?" 

"Nothing,  directly.  You  used  to  like  him,  Lydia." 

She  made  a  little  face. 

"He  interested  me,  naturally.  Any  young  girl  would  be  in- 
terested in  a  picturesque  Moor — and,  from  what  you  tell  me, 
he  isn't  even  picturesque  any  longer.  Besides,  I've  got  my 
values  in  order." 

"Sadi  is  very  useful  to  me — extremely  useful.  He  belongs  to 
one  of  the  first  Moorish  families,  he  is  a  Christian — at  least, 
he's  supposed  to  be — and  he's  rich." 

She  smiled  contemptuously. 

"So  rich  that  he  draws  a  quarterly  allowance  from  you !  No, 
Ralph,  you  can't  bluff  me.  I  know  all  about  Sadi,  as  much  as  I 
want  to  know.  He's  just  a  tricky  Moor ;  and  if  you  expect  me 
to  play  Desdemona  to  him,  you've  got  another  guess  coming. 
Othello  was  never  a  favourite  play  of  mine.  He  is  very  amus- 
ing, I  daresay,  and  he  is  quite  a  big  person  in  Tangier,  and  he 
may  be  a  Christian,  though  I  doubt  it.  But  I'm  not  going  to  be 
Number  Twenty-three  in  his  establishment,  and  the  Lord 
didn't  intend  me  to  end  my  days  in  an  unventilated  harem,  even 
though  I  become  the  pearl  of  great  price  and  the  principal  wife 
of  the  Shereef  Sadi  Hafiz.  I've  been  reading  a  few  books  on 
the  subject  lately,"  she  went  on,  "and  I  understand  that  there's 
a  whole  lot  of  romance  in  the  desert,  but,  to  anybody  who's 
sniffed  the  Near  East,  there's  not  enough  romance  to  compen- 
sate for  one  bad  smell.  The  last  weeks  I  was  in  Paris  I  had 
several  letters  from  you,  Ralph,  talking  about  the  languorous 
joys  of  Morocco,  and  I've  had  it  in  my  mind  to  ask  you  just 
what  you  were  thinking  about." 

"Sadi  is  very  fond  of  you,"  he  said  awkwardly.  "And  these 


n6  THE  BLACK 

marriages  often  turn  out  well.  He  is  a  man  well  thought  of  by 
the  Government,  and  he  has  more  decorations  than  a  general." 

"If  he  was  as  well  decorated  as  a  Christmas  tree,  he  wouldn't 
appeal  to  me,"  said  she  decisively,  "so  let  us  consider  that  mat- 
ter settled  finally." 

She  was  secretly  astonished  that  he  accepted  her  very  plain 
talk  without  protest. 

"Have  it  your  own  way,"  he  said,  "but  you'll  have  to  stay  in 
London,  Lydia,  until  I'm  through  with  this  other  business." 

After  she  had  gone,  he  made  an  effort  to  work,  but  without 
success.  From  time  to  time  he  glanced  at  the  clock  on  his  desk, 
as  though  he  were  expecting  some  visitor.  A  cable  from  Tan- 
gier had  come  that  morning,  and  once  or  twice  he  took  it  from 
his  pocket-book  and  read  it  over  gravely.  Sadi's  impecuniosity 
was  no  new  experience,  but  this  last  demand  was  interesting 
in  view  of  possible  contingencies. 

A  small  and  frugal  lunch  was  served  in  his  office,  and  after 
it  was  cleared  away  he  rang  for  his  clerk,  and  taking  his  cheque- 
book from  the  safe,  wrote  reluctantly. 

"Take  this  to  the  bank  and  bring  the  money  back  in  fives." 

The  well-trained  clerk  did  not  whistle  when  he  saw  the  fig- 
ures, for  he  was  used  to  dealing  with  large  sums,  but  seldom 
had  Mr.  Hamon  drawn  actual  cash  to  that  amount. 

He  returned  in  half-an-hour  with  three  stout  packages, 
which  Hamon  did  not  even  trouble  to  count. 

"I  am  expecting  Mr.  Marborne,"  he  said,  as  he  put  the  money 
away  in  a  drawer.  "Show  him  right  in." 

Marborne  was  due  at  half -past  two.  It  was  nearer  three 
when  he  swaggered  into  the  office,  a  marvellously  transformed 
man,  for  he  was  dressed  in  what  he  conceived  to  be  the  height 
of  fashion,  and  added  to  the  outrage  of  a  crimson  tie  a  grey  top- 
hat.  He  took  the  big  cigar  from  his  teeth  and  nodded  jovially 
at  the  watchful  man  behind  the  desk. 

"  'Morning,  Hamon !  Sorry  I'm  a  bit  late,  but  I  had  one  or 
two  calls  to  make." 

He  had  been  drinking :  Hamon  was  quick  to  notice  this.  On 
the  whole,  he  preferred  to  deal  with  people  who  drank.  One  of 
his  stock  arguments  against  prohibition  was  that  it  put  the 


THE  CABLEGRAM  117 

habitually  sober  at  a  disadvantage  with  the  occasionally  drunk. 

"Got  the  money,  old  man  ?" 

Without  a  word,  Hamon  opened  the  drawer  and  threw  the 
notes  on  to  the  table. 

"Thanks,"  said  Marborne,  who  invariably  developed  gen- 
tility in  his  cups.  "How  does  it  feel,  having  a  family  retainer, 
eh?" 

Hamon  leant  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  glared  across  at  the 
blackmailer. 

"See  here,  Marborne,  I'm  willing  to  finance  you  up  to  the 
limit,  but  you've  got  to  keep  your  promise." 

"I  don't  remember  having  made  any,"  said  the  other  coolly. 
"I  told  you  that  your  little  secret  was  safe  with  me.  You  aren't 
going  to  kick  about  expenses  again,  are  you  ?"  he  asked  humor- 
ously. "I've  got  a  position  to  keep  up.  Thanks  to  working  for 
you,  I've  been  kicked  out  of  the  police  force  without  my  pen- 
sion, and  so  has  Slone.  You  would  have  left  us  to  starve  if  I 
hadn't  had  a  bit  of  luck  and  a  naturally  prying  disposition." 

"Where  have  you  left  that — that  paper?  Suppose  it  falls 
into  somebody  else's  hands?"  asked  Hamon,  and  Marborne 
laughed. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  such  a  fool  that  I'd  throw  away  a  good 
living?"  he  asked  contemptuously. 

Unconsciously  he  pressed  his  hand  to  his  left  side.  It  was  an 
involuntary  movement,  but  it  did  not  escape  the  attention  of 
Hamon. 

"It  is  in  a  safe,"  said  Marborne  loudly,  "burglar-proof  and 
fire-proof,  and  I  am  the  only  person  that's  got  the  key.  See?" 

"I  see,"  said  Hamon,  and  was  almost  cheerful  when  he 
opened  the  door  to  facilitate  his  visitor's  departure. 

He  came  back  to  his  desk,  and  without  hesitation  took  a  cable 
form  and  addressed  a  message  to  "Colport,  Hotel  Cecil,  Tan- 
gier." There  was  only  one  possible  solution  to  the  tyranny  of 
Marborne.  He  must  go  the  way  of  the  unknown  sailor  whom  a 
cyclist  had  found  dying  on  the  Portsmouth  Road. 


ii8  THE  BLACK 

CHAPTER   XXVI 

Joan  Called  Jane 

NOT  since  that  night  of  storm  had  Joan  seen  the  lodger  at  Mrs, 
Cornford's  cottage.  She  had  purposely  avoided  her  visitor,  and 
with  that  extraordinary  determination  which  was  part  of  her 
character,  had  ruled  out  her  vision  and  knowledge  as  a  bad 
dream,  something  hideous  born  of  the  storm. 

Once  in  the  middle  of  the  night  she  woke  up  to  the  stark 
reality  of  fact.  In  the  morning  Jim  had  seen  traces  of  the  de» 
spair  that  had  entered  her  heart,  and  had  wondered,  and,  won« 
dering,  had  been  troubled. 

On  the  morning  that  was  to  see  her  final  visit  to  Wold  House, 
her  maid  came  into  her  room  as  she  was  dressing. 

"Mrs.  Cornf  ord  wishes  to  see  you,"  she  said,  and  Joan  paled. 

"You're  a  great  coward,"  she  said  aloud. 

"Me,  my  lady?"  asked  the  astonished  girl. 

"No,  me,  Alice.  I'll  be  down  in  a  few  minutes." 

There  are  certain  disadvantages  about  putting  things  out  of 
your  mind.  The  reactions  are  apt  to  be  a  little  drastic,  and  Joan 
was  inwardly  quaking  when  she  came  into  the  presence  of  her 
guest. 

"I  heard  that  you  were  back,  and  I  came  to  ask  whether  Lord 
Creith  would  grant  me  a  lease  of  the  cottage,  Lady  Joan." 

"Is  that  all  ?"  said  Joan,  immeasurably  relieved.  "Of  course 
he  will,  Mrs.  Cornf  ord.  Are  you  settling  in  Creith  ?" 

Mrs.  Cornford  hesitated. 

"I  think  so,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Farringdon  is  doing  so  well 
that  he  wants  me  to  stay.  He  has  made  me  a  very  handsome 
offer,  and  I  can  afford  to  give  up  my  music  teaching." 

"Mr.  Farringdon?"  Joan's  voice  trembled  a  little.  "He  is 
your  lodger,  isn't  he?  The  young  man  who — who  drinks. 
Where  did  he  come  from  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  He  was  on  the  West  Coast  of  Africa  for  some 
time.  He  got  into  some  scrape  in  England,  and  his  people  sent 


JOAN  CALLED  JANE  119 

him  abroad  when  he  was  very  young — he  was  expelled  from 
his  school  for  an  escapade." 

"Did  he  tell  you  what  it  was  ?" 

She  waited,  holding  her  breath. 

"No — he  just  said  that  he  did  something  pretty  bad.  He  took 
to  drink  on  the  Coast,  and  drifted  back  to  England.  His  father 
died  and  left  him  an  annuity.  Would  you  like  to  meet  him?" 

"No!" 

The  refusal  was  so  abrupt  and  so  emphatic  that  Joan  saw  she 
had  hurt  the  woman. 

"No,  my  dear — I  don't  want  to  meet  him — my  nerves  are  a 
little  on  edge  with  recent  happenings  in  this  neighbourhood." 

"You  mean  Mr.  Morlake.  How  very  terrible  that  was !  His 
servants  have  left  him,  they  tell  me.  I  almost  volunteered  to 
look  after  him.  Mr.  Farringdon  saw  him  on  the  night  of  his 
arrival." 

"I  know  he  did,"  said  the  girl,  and  corrected  herself  hastily. 
"I'm  told  he  did." 

Mrs.  Cornford  left  her  a  little  thoughtful.  She  must  go  back 
to  London  and  stay  there,  even  though  she  left  the  American 
burglar  to  subsist  on  raw  eggs ! 


There  were  two  strange  men  in  the  village.  Joan  saw  them 
long  before  the  gossips  of  Creith  told  her  that  they  were  young 
business  men  spending  a  holiday  in  the  country.  She  saw  them 
as  they  rode  into  the  village  on  the  previous  afternoon,  two 
healthy-looking  men  who  seemed  to  find  time  hanging  on  their 
hands. 

When  she  came  to  Wold  House  to  cook  the  breakfast  (it  was 
half -past  nine  when  she  appeared)  she  mentioned  her  dis- 
covery. 

Jim  Morlake  nodded. 

"Yes — Sergeant  Finnigan  and  Detective  Spooner  from 
headquarters.  I  saw  them  arrive  the  night  after  I  returned. 
They  came  by  the  last  train  and  were  driven  over  from  the  sta- 
tion in  a  car  belonging  to  the  local  police." 


lao  THE  BLACK 

He  saw  the  concern  in  her  face  and  laughed. 

"You  didn't  imagine  that  the  police  would  drop  me  as  an  un- 
profitable subject,  did  you?  Welling  sent  them  to  make  a  study 
of  my  habits.  They  will  be  here  for  at  least  another  week — I 
thought  of  asking  them  up  to  dinner  one  night.  I  guess  the  food 
they  get  at  the  Red  Lion  doesn't  wholly  satisfy  them." 

She  made  no  reply,  turning  instantly  to  another  matter. 

"I  shall  not  come  again.  I  think  you  can  gather  your  domestic 
staff.  I  saw  Cleaver  in  the  village  yesterday  and  he  was  almost 
tearful  at  the  thought  of  losing  a  good  job." 

"He's  lost  it,"  said  Jim  grimly.  "He's  fixed — permanently ! 
He  is  the  one  man  I'll  never  have." 

"When  he  asks  to  return,  you  must  take  him  back,"  she  said. 
"Don't  be  feeble !  Of  course  he  must  come  back." 

"Must  he  ? — Well,  if  you  say " 

"It  isn't  what  I  say.  Don't  shield  your  weaknesses  behind 
me.  You'll  take  him  back  because  you  can't  quarrel  with  serv- 
ants any  more  than  you  can  quarrel  with  poor  Mr.  Colter." 

She  heard  him  chuckle,  and  frowned. 

"Forgive  my  unseemly  mirth,  Lady  Joan,"  he  said  penitently, 
"but  I  haven't  been  bullied  for — oh,  a  long  time!  I'll  take 
Cleaver  or  anybody  else.  Why  did  you  tell  Lydia " 

He  stopped,  and  she  paused,  fry-pan  in  hand,  to  shoot  a  ques- 
tioning glance  at  him. 

"Tell  her— what?" 

"Oh,  nothing  ...  I  suppose  you  said  it  to  annoy  her.  She 
thinks  so  anyhow.'5 

He  found  himself  confused ;  he  could  feel  the  colour  going 
to  his  face,  and  the  more  he  tried  to  control  this  ridiculous 
display  the  more  incoherent  of  speech  and  gauche  of  manner  he 
became. 

"You  mean  that  I  told  her  I  was  engaged  to  you  ?"  she  said 
calmly.  "Yes,  I  did.  I  wanted  to  shock  her,  and  yours  was  the 
first  name  that  occurred  to  me — you  don't  mind  ?" 

"Mind  .  .  .  ?  Well,  I  should  say  not  ...   !" 

"I  hoped  you  wouldn't.  When  I  remembered,  after  1  had 
left  you,  that  I  had  confided  my  awful  secret  to  Lydia  Hamon, 
I  had  ten  million  fits." 


JOAN  CALLED  JANE  121 

Skilfully  she  lifted  the  eggs  from  the  pan  and  laid  them  on 
the  dish. 

"I  was  afraid  that  I  had  hopelessly  compromised  you — 
you're  married,  of  course  ?" 

"I  am  not  married,"  he  said  violently,  "and  have  never  been 
married." 

"Most  nice  people  are,"  she  said  with  such  indifference  that 
his  heart  sank;  "and  I  suppose  you  are  nice  .  .  .  yes,  I'm 
sure  you  are.  Don't  put  your  elbow  on  the  egg — thank  you !" 

He  had  no  mind  for  eggs.  He  hated  eggs :  the  sight  of  a  yolk 
made  him  shudder. 

"I  am  sorry  you  are  Lady  Joan.  I  liked  Jane  ...  I  like  Joan 
too,  immensely.  There  was  a  girl  in  Springfield,  Connecticut, 
that  I  knew " 

"Is  it  necessary  to  tell  me  about  your  early  love  affairs  ?"  she 
asked.  "I  am  too  young  to  be  interested." 

"This  was  not  a  love  affair,"  he  protested  hotly.  "Her  name 
was  Joan,  and  she  called  me  Jim.  Her  father  was  an  Alder*, 
man." 

"My  name  is  Joan,  and  if  you  wish  to  call  me  Joan  don't  let 
anything  stand  in  your  way,"  she  said,  seating  herself  at  the 
kitchen  table.  "I  may  even  call  you  Jim,  but  father  has  a  pet 
Persian  cat  he  calls  Jim,  and  if  I  called  you  that  I'd  expect  you 
to  mew!  I  don't  like  Lexington — it  is  too  much  like  the  name 
of  a  railway  station.  And  I  don't  like  Morlake.  I  had  better  call 
you  nothing.  .  .  .  About  this  engagement  of  ours.  I  wonder  if 
you  would  mind  if  I  did  not  break  it  off  for  a  week  or  so  ?  Mr. 
Hamon  has  views  about  me  and  my  future." 

"But  suppose  he  carries  this  ridiculous  story  to  your 
father  ?"  he  asked,  aghast. 

"  'Ridiculous  story'  would  have  come  better  from  me,"  she 
said  coldly,  "but  as  you  got  in  first,  it  is  due  to  my  father  to  say 
that  he  would  be  amused.  I  was  worried  at  first  for  fear  the 
story  got  into  the  newspapers." 

"Why  has  Hamon  such  a  pull  in  this  part  of  the  country?" 
he  asked. 

She  told  him  very  frankly  just  how  Mr.  Hamon's  local  in- 
terests had  developed,  and  he  whistled. 


122  THE  BLACK 

"So  you  see,  our  title  is  rather  a  hollow  mockery.  The  real 
Lord  of  Creith  is  Hamon,  and  I  am  his  handmaiden.  He  wants 
to  marry  me,  just  as  all  bad  men  in  stories  want  to  marry  the 
daughter  of  the  ruined  earl.  To  make  the  story  complete,  I 
should  be  madly  in  love  with  the  poor  but  honest  farmer  who  is 
the  real  heir  to  the  estate.  But  all  the  farmers  round  here  are 
rich,  and  daddy  says  that  there  isn't  one  he'd  trust  with  a  wag- 
gon load  of  wurzels." 

He  could  not  keep  his  eyes  from  her  as  he  listened,  fasci- 
nated. It  was  not  her  beauty  that  held  him,  nor  her  breath- 
taking self-possession,  nor  the  humour  behind  irony.  A  little 
of  each  perhaps,  but  something  else.  He  remembered  the  morn- 
ing— was  it  yesterday  ? — that  she  had  come  with  the  unmistak- 
able evidence  of  tears  in  her  eyes.  This  hard,  practical  side  of 
her,  this  flippancy  of  comment,  was  not  the  real  Joan  Carston 
She  puzzled  him  a  lot,  and  frightened  him  too. 

"Don't  stare,  James — that  is  better  than  Jim,  but  rather  on 
the  footman  side — it  is  very  rude  to  stare.  I  wanted  to  ask  you 
something  too  .  .  .  what  was  it  ?  I  know !  Last  night  I  bor- 
rowed a  pair  of  night  glasses  from  Peters.  From  my  window 
I  can  see  Wold  House.  At  night  there  is  a  yellow  blob  of  light 
which  I  couldn't  identify.  With  the  glasses  I  saw  that  it  was  the 
library  window.  And  I  saw  your  shadow  passing  and  re- 
passing  across  the  white  blind.  Why  do  you  have  white  shades, 
James  ?  You  need  not  answer  that.  You  were  still  walking  up 
and  down  when  I  went  to  bed  at  one  o'clock.  I  watched  you  for 
an  hour  .  .  .  why  are  you  laughing  ?" 

"Finnigan  and  Spooner  watched  for  longer,"  he  said  be- 
tween paroxysms.  "They  made  a  special  report  on  my  restless- 
ness. I  guess  that." 

"How  do  you  know — that  they  were  watching,  I  mean?" 

"After  it  was  dark  I  laid  down  'trip  wires,'  only  I  used  black 
thread,"  he  said.  "Every  thread  was  broken  this  morning.  So 
was  the  cotton  I  pegged  across  the  gate,  which  I  left  unlocked. 
On  the  path  under  the  window  I  laid  down  sheets  of  brown 
paper  covered  with  bird  lime — I  found  them  on  the  road  this 
morning." 

Her  eyes  danced  with  joy 


JOAN  CALLED  JANE  123 

"The  boy  who  cleans  the  boots  at  the  Red  Lion  is  a  friend  of 
mine.  I  went  down  early  .this  morning  and  found  him  scraping 
the  sticky  stuff  off  Finnigan's  boots,  and  Spooner's  pants  were 
horrible  to  see — he  must  have  sat  down  in  it !  They  will  watch 
me,  of  course — they  would  be  fools  if  they  didn't." 

When  the  meal  was  over  and  they  were  washing  the  dishes 
together,  she  asked : 

"What  were  you  thinking  about  last  night  that  you  couldn't 
sleep?" 

"My  sins,"  he  answered  solemnly,  and  for  some  reason  or 
other  her  attitude  was  a  little  frigid  toward  him  for  the  remain- 
der of  the  morning. 

And  to  whatever  error  he  had  committed  in  the  morning,  he 
added  what  proved  to  be  a  crowning  indiscretion.  He  came 
into  the  kitchen  and  found  her  at  the  table,  bare-armed,  knead- 
ing some  pastry. 

"That  was  a  bad  burn,"  he  said. 

He  had  never  before  seen  the  heart-shaped  scar  on  the  back 
of  her  hand. 

To  his  surprise,  she  flushed  red. 

"It  only  shows  sometimes,"  she  said  shortly. 

She  left  soon  after  without  saying  good-bye. 

In  the  afternoon  came  a  humble  Cleaver,  with  a  rambling 
and  unconvincing  story  of  the  causes  that  led  to  his  resignation. 
Jim  Morlake  cut  him  short. 

"You  may  come  back,"  he  said,  "and  you  may  reengage 
any  servants  who  wish  to  return.  But  there  is  a  new  routine 
in  this  household.  Everybody  must  be  in  bed  by  ten,  and  under 
no  circumstances  may  you  or  anybody  else  interrupt  me  when 
I  am  working  in  my  room." 

"If  Mr.  Hamon  hadn't,  so  to  speak,  lured  me  away " 

began  Cleaver, 

"I  have  known  Mr.  Hamon  in  many  roles,"  interrupted  Jim, 
"but  I  confess  that  Hamon  the  siren  is  a  new  one  on  me." 

The  study  was  situated  at  that  end  of  the  building  nearest 
Creith  House.  It  was  a  long,  rather  narrow  room,  with  two  en- 
trances, one  leading  to  the  hall,  the  other  opening  into  a  small . 
lobby.  Here  was  a  narrow  staircase  leading  directly  into  his 


124  THE  BLACK 

bedroom,  which  was  above  the  study.  The  bedroom,  in  a  sense, 
ran  at  right  angles  to  the  room  below,  for  whilst  this  ran  length- 
wise along  the  front  of  the  house,  the  bedroom  extended  from 
the  front  to  the  back. 

Whilst  Cleaver  was  collecting  his  scattered  staff,  Jim  went 
up  the  staircase  to  the  bedroom,  locked  the  door,  and,  taking 
up  a  corner  of  the  carpet,  opened  a  small  trapdoor  in  the  floor 
and  took  out  a  black  tin  box,  which  he  carried  to  the  table. 
From  this  he  extracted  his  little  leather  hold-all  of  tools,  a  gun 
and  the  inevitable  square  of  silk,  and  these  he  took  down  to 
the  study,  putting  them  into  his  drawer.  Though  all  the  de- 
tectives in  the  world  were  watching  him,  though  the  threat  of 
life  imprisonment  hung  over  him  like  a  cloud,  The  Black  must 
again  go  about  his  furtive  work.  For  the  voice  of  the  dead  was 
whispering  again,  urgently,  insistently,  and  Jim  Morlake  did 
not  hesitate  to  obey. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

Mrs.  Cornford's  Lodger 

JIM  filled  up  the  tank  of  his  car,  stacked  a  couple  of  tins  in 
the  dickey  and  drove  the  machine  into  the  village,  stopping 
first  at  the  post  office  to  send  a  wire  to  Binger,  and  then  at 
the  blacksmith's  shop,  which,  since  the  demise  of  the  garage, 
had  served  the  rough  needs  of  motorists.  The  complicated  re- 
pairs which  he  described  to  the  blacksmith  could  not  be  carried 
out  at  Creith,  as  he  well  knew. 

"You  had  better  take  the  car  to  Horsham,  Mr.  Morlake," 
said  the  blacksmith.  "I  don't  know  enough  about  these  here 
machines  to  do  the  work  you  want." 

The  police  watcher  saw  him  drive  off  and  strolled  across  to 
the  blacksmith  to  discover  what  was  the  trouble. 


MRS.  CORNFORD'S  LODGER  125 

"His  steering  apparatus  has  gone  wrong,"  said  the  smith. 
"He  has  patched  it  up  himself,  but  I  told  him  it  is  dangerous 
to  drive  and  he's  taken  it  over  to  Bolley's  at  Horsham." 

Satisfied,  Detective  Spooner  went  back  to  his  chief  and  re- 
ported. Just  as  it  was  getting  dark,  Jim  returned  by  the  little 
motor  omnibus  which  plied  three  times  a  day  between  Creith 
and  Horsham.  This  also  Spooner  reported. 

"I  don't  see  what's  the  use  of  keeping  us  down  here  at  all," 
said  Sergeant  Milligan.  "It's  a  dead  and  alive  hole,  and  it's  not 
likely  that  Morlake  is  going  to  start  anything  just  yet.  The 
trial's  shaken  him  up  a  bit." 

"I  wish  he'd  get  in  the  habit  of  going  to  bed  early,"  grum- 
bled his  subordinate.  "I  had  a  talk  with  the  butler — who  is 
going  back  to  him,  by  the  way — and  he  said  that  he'd  never 
known  his  boss  to  have  insomnia  before." 

"Perhaps  it  is  his  conscience,"  said  Milligan  hopefully. 

Soon  after  Jim  returned  to  the  house,  Binger  arrived  with  a 
small  handbag,  containing  all  that  was  necessary  for  him  in  the 
matter  of  changes,  and  William  Cleaver  showed  him  into  Jim's 
room. 

"I've  got  a  job  for  you  that  you'll  like,  Binger,"  said  Jim. 
"It  is  to  sit  in  a  chair  and  do  nothing  for  five  or  six  hours  every 
night.  You  will  be  able  to  sleep  in  the  day  and  I've  not  the 
slightest  doubt  that  you'll  also  put  in  a  few  short  winks  whilst 
on  duty." 

Binger,  whose  face  had  fallen  at  the  suggestion  of  work, 
brightened  up  again. 

"I'm  not  naturally  a  lazy  man,  sir,"  he  said,  "but  I  find  at 
my  time  of  life,  after  my  military  experience,  that  things  tire 
me  very  hastily.  I  think  it  must  be  the  fever  I  got  in  Hindia.  It 
isn't  that  I'm  lazy — ho  no !  Work  I  love.  Are  you  having  a  hard 
time  'ere,  sir? — I  expect  you  hare !  Naturally  the  gentry  would 
be  a  bit  put  out,  you  being  a  burglar,  sir.  I'm  sure  the  way  the 
reporters  came  hafter  me  when  you  was  in  jug  was  disgraceful. 
They  put  my  portrait  in  the  papers,  sir — maybe  you  saw  it  ?" 
He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  took  out  a  large,  creased  and 
somewhat  idealised  photograph  of  Mr.  Binger.  "Not  that  I 
court  publicity,  sir,  to  use  a  foreign  hexpression,  but  if  you're 


126  THE  BLACK 

in  the  public  heye,  you're  in  the  public  heye,  and  there's  no  get* 
ting  away  from  it.  This  Mommet"  (he  referred  to  Mahmet 
thus)  "he  doesn't  mind  at  all.  Being  a  Hafrican,  he  'asn't  got 
any  sense.  You've  given  it  hup,  I  suppose,  sir  ?" 

"Given  what  hup  ?"  asked  Jim. 

"Burglarising,  sir." 

He  saw  an  unfamiliar  object  standing  on  a  side  table. 

"Going  in  for  music,  sir  ?"  he  asked. 

Jim  looked  across  at  the  big  gramophone  that  had  been 
delivered  to  him  a  few  days  before. 

"Yes,  I've  developed  a  pretty  taste  in  jazz,"  he  said.  "Now 
listen  to  my  instructions,  Binger,  and  they  are  to  be  carried 
out  to  the  letter.  To-night  at  ten  o'clock  you  will  take  up  your 
post  outside  my  door.  You  can  have  the  most  comfortable  chair 
you  can  find,  and  I  don't  mind  very  much  if  you  sleep.  But  no- 
body is  to  come  into  this  room — you  understand  ?  And  under 
no  circumstances  am  I  to  be  interrupted.  If  any  detectives 
call " 

"Detectives?"  said  the  startled  Binger. 

"There  are  two  in  Creith,"  said  Jim  coolly,  "but  I  don't 
think  they  will  worry  you.  But  if  they  call,  knock  at  the  front 
door,  or  do  anything  after  ten  o'clock,  they  are  not  to  be  ad- 
mitted unless  they  can  produce  a  warrant  signed  by  a  magis- 
trate, which  is  extremely  unlikely.  You  understand  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Do  you  want  me  to  bring  you  in  some  coffee?" 

"I  want  you  to  bring  me  in  nothing,"  said  Jim  sharply.  "If 
you  attempt  to  come  in  or  interrupt  me,  you'll  be  fired." 

He  had  the  best  dinner  he  had  had  in  weeks  that  night,  f  o» 
the  majority  of  the  staff  were  again  on  duty.  At  half -past  nine 
he  interviewed  Cleaver,  who  was  already  making  preparations 
to  retire  for  the  night. 

Jim  strolled  into  the  grounds  and  walked  to  the  gate.  The 
road  was  deserted,  but  in  the  shadow  of  a  hedge  he  saw  a  red 
spark  of  light  that  glowed  and  died  with  regularity.  It  was  the 
cigar  of  the  watcher,  and  he  smiled  to  himself. 

Going  back  to  his  study,  he  found  that  Binger,  with  a  rug 
and  a  chair,  had  taken  up  his  position  in  the  hall. 

"Good-night,  Binger,"  he  said  and  locked  the  door. 


MRS.  CORNFORD'S  LODGER  127 

Though  the  house  was  equipped  for  electric  lighting,  the 
petrol  engine  which  supplied  the  current  had  not  been  work- 
ing since  his  return.  On  his  study  table  was  a  shaded  vapour 
lamp,  which  threw  a  powerful  light  on  to  the  desk.  The  shade 
he  had  removed  and  the  brilliance  of  the  flame  was  almost 
blinding. 

He  picked  up  the  gramophone  and  put  it  on  the  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  wound  it  tight  and  regulated  the  turn- 
table until  it  moved  at  its  slowest  pace.  Then,  from  his  desk, 
he  took  a  long  steel  rod,  which  he  screwed  into  the  end  of  the 
turn-table.  To  this  he  had  fixed  a  tiny  cardboard  figure,  the  sil- 
houette of  a  man  with  his  hands  behind  him,  clamped  to  a 
piece  of  stout  wire.  This  he  fastened  to  the  end  of  the  rod,  and 
carrying  the  vapour  lamp  from  his  desk,  placed  it  in  the  centre 
of  the  turn-table  and  released  the  catch.  The  disc  turned  slowly 
and  with  it  the  lamp  and  the  cardboard  figure.  Presently  the 
blurred  shadow  of  the  silhouette  passed  across  the  white  win- 
dow shade. 

"There  he  goes  again !"  groaned  Detective  Spooner,  as  he 
saw  the  shadow  pass.  "How  long  is  he  going  to  keep  that  up?" 

Apparently  not  for  long,  for  Jim  stopped  the  machine,  and, 
passing  upstairs  to  his  room,  changed  into  an  old  black  suit. 
Over  this  he  drew  a  tightly  fitting  ulster  that  reached  almost 
to  his  heels,  and  this,  with  a  soft  black  hat,  completed  his  ward- 
robe. He  put  his  tools  and  gun  in  his  pocket,  added  a  small 
but  powerful  electric  torch  and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was 
half -past  ten.  The  house  was  silent.  He  went  back  to  the  study 
and,  going  close  to  the  door,  called  Binger. 

"Are  you  all  right?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Remember  I  am  not  to  be  interrupted." 

"No,  sir,  I  quite  understand." 

From  the  voice  he  gathered  that  the  watchful  Binger  was 
already  half  asleep. 

He  set  the  gramophone  working  again,  watched  it  for  a  little 
while,  regulating  the  speed,  and  then,  passing  up  to  his  bed- 
room, crossed  to  the  window  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and, 
lifting  the  sash,  stepped  out  upon  a  small  balcony. 


128  THE  BLACK 

In  a  minute  he  was  in  the  grounds,  making  his  way  furtively 
in  the  shadow  of  the  bushes  to  the  little  footbridge  that  led  to 
the  Creith  estate.  Ten  minutes'  walk  and  he  came  to  an  isolated 
barn,  approached  by  a  cart  track  across  a  field  which  was  his 
property,  and  here  the  car  was  waiting.  .  .  . 

"He's  at  it  again,"  said  Spooner  to  his  sergeant  who  had 
strolled  up  to  join  the  watcher.  "There  he  goes,"  as  a  shadow 
crossed  the  window  jerkily. 

Spooner  groaned. 

"This  means  an  all-night  job,"  he  said. 

At  that  moment  Jim's  car  was  running  up  the  Haymarket 
in  a  drizzle  of  rain.  He  turned  into  Wardour  Street  and,  put- 
ting the  machine  at  the  tail  of  a  long  queue  of  cars  that  were 
waiting  here  to  pick  up  the  theatre  traffic,  he  walked  into 
Shaftesbury  Avenue  and  hailed  a  taxi.  As  the  car  drew  up, 
the  door  of  a  saloon  bar  was  pushed  open  violently  and  a  man 
stumbled  out. 

He  fell  against  Jim,  who  caught  and  jerked  him  to  his  feet. 

"  'Scuse  me !"  said  the  drunkard,  "had  a  slight  argument . . . 
on  purely  abstrac'  question  of  metaphysics,"  he  got  the  word 
out  with  difficulty. 

Jim  looked  at  him  closely.  It  was  the  young  man  who  had 
come  to  his  house  on  the  night  of  the  storm. 

"Hello,  my  friend,  you're  a  long  way  from  home,"  he  said, 
before  he  remembered  that  he  particularly  did  not  wish  to  be 
recognised.  But  the  man  was  incapable  of  recognition. 

The  taxicab  was  waiting,  and,  seeing  the  little  crowd  that 
was  gathering,  he  pushed  the  sot  into  the  car. 

"Drive  to  Long  Acre,"  he  said. 

At  this  hour  of  the  night  the  street  of  wholesale  fruit  sales- 
men and  motor-car  depots  would  be  empty.  Stopping  the  cab 
in  the  quietest  part  of  the  street,  he  guided  his  companion  to  the 
side- walk. 

"Now,  Mr.  Soak,  I  advise  you  to  go  home." 

"Home!"  said  the  other  bitterly.  "Got  no  home!  Got  no 
friends,  got  no  girl !" 

"Perhaps  that  is  not  unfortunate — for  the  girl,"  said  Jim, 
impatient  to  be  gone. 


MR.  WELLING  GIVES  ADVICE         129 

"Is  it?  I  dunno.  I'd  like  to  get  hold  of  the  girl  who  played 
the  trick  on  me.  I'd  kill  her — I  would,  I'd  kill  her !" 

His  weak  face  was  distorted  with  sudden  rage  and  then  he 
burst  into  drunken  tears. 

"She  ruined  my  life,  damn  her !"  he  sobbed,  "and  I  don't 
know  her,  except  her  Christian  name,  don't  know  anything 
except  that  her  father's  a  lord  . . .  she's  got  a  little  heart-shaped 
scar  on  the  back  of  her  hand." 

"What  is  the  name  of  this  girl  who — who  ruined  your  life  ?" 
asked  Jim  huskily. 

The  young  man  wiped  his  eyes  and  gulped. 

"Joan — that  is  her  name,  Joan  .  .  .  she  played  it  low  down 
on  me  and  if  I  ever  find  her,  I'll  kill  her !" 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

Mr.  Welling  Gives  Advice 

ON  THE  day  that  Ralph  Hamon  received  an  answer  to  his 
Moorish  cablegram,  Mr.  Marborne  dined  well  and  expensively, 
for  he  had  reached  that  blissful  stage  of  conscious  prosperity 
when  money  came  natural. 

His  guest  that  night  was  Mr.  Augustus  Slone ;  and  Sergeant 
Slone,  from  being  an  uninteresting,  snub-nosed  man  with  a 
vacuous  face  and  an  apologetic  air,  had  developed  into  a  man  of 
fashion. 

So  they  dined  in  the  largest  restaurant  in  Oxford  Street,  and 
it  was  a  dinner  of  many  courses. 

"Another  bottle,"  said  Mr.  Marborne  grandly. 

He  pushed  down  the  stiff  front  of  his  shirt,  which  bulged 
above  the  white  waistcoat,  and  examined  his  cigar  with  a  criti- 
cal air. 


130  THE  BLACK 

"Well,  Slone,  this  is  more  my  idea  of  life  than  rousting 
round  looking  for  little  tea-leaves."* 

"You've  said  it,"  said  Slone  simply. 

He  also  was  dressed  in  expensive  raiments  and  if  his  black 
dress  bow  had  an  edging  of  purple,  it  was  only  because  a  cer- 
tain gentlemen's  outfitter  had  assured  him  that  this  was  the 
latest  and  most  recherche  vagary  of  fashion. 

"How  long  is  it  going  on?"  he  asked,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair  and  regarding  his  companion  with  a  glassy  stare. 

"For  ever,"  said  the  other,  and  as  he  waved  his  hand  the 
overhead  lights  were  reflected  brilliantly  from  the  diamond  in 
his  new  ring. 

"What  have  you  got  on  Hamon?" 

"What  do  you  mean — what  have  I  got  on  him  ?" 

"You've  got  something."  Slone  nodded  with  drunken  wis- 
dom. "You've  put  som'n  on  to  him  somehow.  What  have  you 
found  out  about  him  ?" 

"Never  mind  what  I've  found  out.  All  you've  got  to  do  is 
to  be  satisfied  and  ask  no  questions.  Am  I  doing  the  right  thing 
by  you  or  am  I  not?" 

"You're  certainly  doing  the  right  thing  by  me,"  admitted 
Slone  with  warmth  and  they  shook  hands  fervently  across  the 
table. 

"I'll  tell  you — not  everything,  but  a  little.  A  certain  docu- 
ment has  come  into  my  possession,"  said  Marborne.  "I  won't 
say  what  it  is  or  how  I  got  it,  but  it  is  something  which  would 
do  him  a  lot  of  no  good.  That  fellow  is  worth  a  million,  Slone, 
and  he  has  a  sister. ...  !"  He  kissed  the  tips  of  his  fingers  and 
waved  them  to  the  ceiling  ecstatically. 

"I  know  all  about  his  sister,"  said  Slone,  "and  she's  not  the 
sort  of  girl  who  would  have  anything  to  do  with  you,  Mar- 
borne." 

Marborne's  face  went  a  dull  red.  In  his  cups  he  was  some- 
what quarrelsome. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  demanded.  "What  was  she  before 
Hamon  made  his  money  ?  A  barmaid !  That's  what  she  was. 


*ln  the  argot  of  the  London  crook,  a  tea-leaf  is  a  thief. 


MR.  WELLING  GIVES  ADVICE         131 

She  served  the  drinks  in  a  little  dive  off  Glasshouse  Street. 
She's  no  better  than  me — in  fact,  she  is  not  so  good." 

Slone  assented  sycophantically. 

"And  there's  no  sense  in  talking  about  putting  the  black  on 
Hamon,"  Marborne  went  on.  "What  is  he — a  thief,  that's  what 
he  is  and  I  can  prove  it." 

"Is  that  what  you  know  about  him,  Marborne  ?" 

"Never  mind  what  I  know,"  retorted  Marborne,  beckoning 
the  waiter  as  a  resolve  came  to  him. 

"Let  us  have  another  drink,"  suggested  Slone. 

"You've  had  enough,"  said  the  other.  "There's  that  old 
swine,  Welling !" 

The  shock  of  the  discovery  that  he  had  been  under  the  obser- 
vation of  that  grey-haired  sleuth  probably  all  the  evening, 
sobered  him.  As  he  caught  Marborne's  eye  Welling  rose  from 
the  little  table  where  he  had  been  enjoying  a  protracted  dinner 
and  walked  across  to  the  two  and  instinctively  Slone  stood 
to  attention. 

"Sit  down,  you  fool,"  said  Marborne  under  his  breath. 
"You're  not  in  the  police  force  now.  Good  evening,  Captain 
Welling." 

"Good  evening,  Marborne.  Having  a  good  time?"-  He  sat 
down  at  the  unoccupied  end  of  the  table  and  his  mild  eyes  sur- 
veyed the  former  police  officer  with  interest.  "Doing  well,  eh  ? 
Making  a  lot  of  money?  That's  the  thing  to  do,  Marborne. 
Honest  money  brings  happiness,  crook  money  brings  time." 

"I'm  not  going  to  discuss  with  you,  Captain  Welling, 
whether  my  money's  honest  or  dishonest.  If  you  think " 

Welling  stopped  him  with  an  almost  humble  gesture. 

"You  can't  mean  to  suggest  that  you  aren't  making  a  for- 
tune?" he  said.  "How  is  friend  Hamon?" 

"I  don't  know  Mr.  Hamon — at  least  not  very  well,"  protested 
Marborne  loudly.  "What  are  these  innuendoes,  Captain?  I 
don't  know  why  you  should  intrude  yourself  upon  me.  I've 
got  nothing  to  thank  you  for." 

"You've  a  lot  to  thank  me  for,"  said  Welling,  lighting  the 
ragged  stub  of  a  cigar  which  he  extracted  with  care  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket.  "The  Commissioner  wanted  to  prosecute  you, 


i32  THE  BLACK 

and  I  think  you  would  have  had  nine  months'  hard  labour  as 
the  result  of  certain  indiscretions  of  yours,  but  I  persuaded 
him,  in  the  interests  of  the  service,  that  it  would  be  better  if 
we  let  bygones  be  bygones.  Hamon  is  well,  you  say?" 

"I  didn't  say  anything  about  Hamon." 

"A  nice  man,"  mused  Julius  softly,  "an  extremely  nice  man. 
You're  working  for  him  ?" 

"I  tell  you,  I've  nothing  to  do  with  Mr.  Hamon." 

"You  must  be  working  for  him,"  said  the  other  with  gentle 
insistence.  "He  drew  a  thousand  pounds  from  the  bank  only 
a  week  ago  and  at  least  three  of  the  notes  have  been  passed 
by  you.  He  would  hardly  pay  you  for  nothing,  would  he,  Mar- 
borne,  because  that  is  not  the  way  of  the  world."  He  sighed 
heavily.  "Our  cruel  employers  get  the  last  ounce  out  of  us,  and 
perhaps  they're  right.  What  are  you  now — a  financier  ?" 

Marborne  was  silent. 

"I've  been  worrying  about  Hamon,"  Welling  went  on.  "I 
saw  him  for  a  few  minutes  the  other  day  and  he  looked  ill. 
As  if  he  had  some  trouble  on  his  mind.  He  couldn't  have  lost 
anything  from  Grosvenor  Place,  or  he  would  have  reported  the 
matter  to  the  police,  wouldn't  he?  Of  course  he  would!  Yes, 
I'm  glad  to  see  you're  getting  on,  Marborne.  And  Slone  too ! 
They  tell  me  he's  living  in  a  Bloomsbury  hotel  like  a  gentle- 
man !  You  boys  are  making  money."  He  shook  a  finger  wag- 
gishly at  the  infuriated  and  a  little  frightened  Marborne. 

"You're  simply  dragging  it  in,  Inspector It  sounds  better 

to  call  you  Inspector,  doesn't  it?  Somebody  was  telling  me, 
you've  had  a  safe  put  up  in  your  apartments — a  beautiful  new, 
green,  warranted-to-defy-fire-and-thieves  safe." 

"You've  been  tailing  me  up,  Welling,"  said  Marborne 
roughly.  ''You've  no  right  to  do  that." 

"Tailing  you  up?"  Julius  Welling  seemed  shocked  at  the 
charge.  "That  is  the  last  thing  in  the  world  I  should  think  of 
doing.  But  gossip  gets  around — you  know  how  small  London 
is.  One  man  sees  one  thing,  one  man  sees  another,  and  they 
sort  of  pass  on  the  information.  And  I  think  you  are  wise.  If 
you've  got  a  lot  of  loose  money  lying  around,  and  you  don't 


MR.  WELLING  GIVES  ADVICE         133 

patronise  banks,  it  is  only  an  intelligent  precaution  to  have  a 
good  safe." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  not  using  banks?"  said  Marborne 
hotly.  "I've  got  a  banking  account  in  Holborn." 

"But  you  never  use  it,"  said  the  gentle  Julius,  shaking  his 
head,  "and  again  I'm  sure  you  are  right.  You  never  know 
when  a  bank  will  fail.  On  the  other  hand,  if  you've  got  a  nice, 
big,  green,  fire  proof  safe,  there's  nothing  to  fear  except  bur- 
glars. And  what  are  burglars?  The  Black  wouldn't  rob  you, 
even  if  he  hadn't  gone  out  of  the  burglarly  business  for  good 
— which  of  course  he  has." 

He  looked  round  quickly  and  then  lowering  his  voice,  he 
said: 

"Marborne,  have  you  ever  tried  to  tie  a  tin  can  to  the  tail  of 
a  wildcat  ?  I  see  by  your  expression  that  you  haven't.  It  is  less 
dangerous  than  'tinning'  Ralph  Hamon.  The  Old  Book  says 
there's  a  time  to  make  merry  and  a  time  to  be  sad,  a  time  to 
sleep  and  a  time  to  eat ;  and  let  me  tell  you  that  there  is  a  time 
to  quit,  too  !  And  that's  very  near  at  hand.  I  wish  you  no  harm, 
Marborne.  You're  a  bit  of  a  bad  lad,  but  there's  a  lot  about 
you  that  I  like.  Your  simplicity  is  one  of  the  things  and  your 
transparent  honesty  is  another.  And  I  shouldn't  feel  right  if  I 
didn't  pass  on  these  few  words  of  wisdom  and  guidance.  Pack 
up  your  bundle  and  go  while  the  going's  good." 

"Go  where  ?"  asked  the  puzzled  Marborne. 

Welling  rose  heavily  from  the  table. 

"They  tell  me  Spain  is  a  pretty  useful  place.  But  keep  to  the 
north.  The  south  is  too  near  to  Morocco.  Italy  is  another  coun- 
try where  living  is  cheap  and  the  climate  is  passable.  I'll  do 
what  I  can  to  protect  you." 

"Protect  me !"  gasped  Marborne,  and  Welling  nodded. 

"Yes,  sir,  that  is  the  word  I  used.  I  tell  you  I'll  do  my  best 
for  you,  but  I'm  not  superhuman.  Keep  away  from  wildcats." 

To  Marborne's  intense  irritation,  the  old  man  patted  him  on 
the  shoulder. 

"Remember  that  easy  money  stings.  You  don't  feel  the  sting 
lor  a  long  time  after,  but  when  you  do,  it'll  hurt  like  hell !" 


134  THE  BLACK 

CHAPTER   XXIX 

A  Love  Call 

"HE  is  a  dithering  old  fool,"  said  Marborne  angrily,  "and  I 
can't  stand  here  all  night  discussing  Welling.  Get  me  a  taxi, 
commissionaire." 

"Don't  you  make  any  mistake  about  Welling,"  said  Slone,  a 
greatly  troubled  man.  "That  man  knows !  If  he  says  'quit'  you 
take  my  advice  and  quit." 

"I  don't  even  want  your  advice.  I'll  see  you  in  the  morning," 
said  Marborne,  bustling  into  the  taxi. 

He  was  more  sober  than  he  had  been  since  the  dinner  started 
and  his  first  impulse  was  to  go  home.  Indeed,  he  gave  instruc- 
tions to  this  effect,  but  changed  them  and  leaning  from  the  win- 
dow ordered  the  driver  to  take  him  to  Grosvenor  Place. 

There  was  a  light  in  the  drawing-room  and  he  smiled  as  he 
mounted  the  steps. 

Lydia  heard  his  voice  in  the  hall  and  almost  before  the  foot- 
man had  announced  his  name — 

"I  am  not  at  home,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

This  was  the  third  evening  visit  Marborne  had  paid  in  a 
week  and  with  each  he  had  grown  a  little  bolder.  Before  the 
servant  could  get  out  of  the  room,  the  door  was  pushed  open 
and  the  ex-inspector  appeared. 

"Hullo,  Lydia!  Thought  I  would  come  and  see  how  you 
were  getting  along." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  called  her  by  her  Christian  name 
and  for  a  second  there  was  a  gleam  in  her  eye  which  boded 
ill  for  the  adventurous  man. 

"Ralph  is  out,  I  suppose  ?" 

"How  long  has  he  been  'Ralph'  to  you,  Mr.  Marborne?" 

"Oh,  for  a  long  time,"  said  Marborne  lightly.  "I'm  not 
one  of  these  sticklers  for  etiquette.  If  a  man's  name  is  Ralph, 
he  should  be  called  Ralph." 

She  checked  the  retort  on  her  lips,  having  discovered  that 


A  LOVE  CALL  135 

the  best  method  of  wearying  her  visitor  was  to  allow  him  to 
make  all  the  conversation,  for  Marborne  had  not  a  great  stock 
of  small  talk.  But  to-night  she  had  not  the  patience  to  continue 
in  her  abstention  and  presently  she  was  irritated  into  asking : 

"What  has  happened  lately,  Mr.  Marborne,  that  you  have 
become  so  very  familiar,  both  with  my  brother  and  myself? 
I'm  not  a  snob,  and  I  daresay  you're  as  good  as  anybody  else, 
but  I  tell  you  frankly  that  I  do  not  like  your  calling  me  'Lydia' 
and  I  will  ask  you  not  to  call  me  so  again." 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded  with  a  tolerant  smile.  "Your 
name  is  Lydia.  They  used  to  call  you  Lydia  in  the  dear  old 
days  when  you  shook  cocktails  for  the  thirsty  boys !" 

She  was  white  with  passion  but  had  gained  control  over  her 
speech. 

"Come  now,  Lydia,  what  is  the  use  of  putting  on  side  ?  I  am 
a  man,  the  same  as  other  men  you  meet.  Why  can't  we  be  good 
friends  ?  Come  and  have  a  bit  of  luncheon  with  me  to-morrow 
and  we  can  go  on  to  a  matinee  afterwards." 

"I  am  thrilled,"  she  said  coldly.  "Unfortunately  I  have  a 
luncheon  engagement." 

"Put  it  off,"  said  Marborne,  his  admiring  eyes  devouring 
her.  "Lydia,  why  can't  we  be  good  friends?" 

"Because  I  don't  like  you,"  she  said.  "After  all,  barmaids 
do  not  choose  barmen  for  their  companions ;  they  like  to  get 
something  a  little  above  them,  socially  and  intellectually.  What 
you  are  intellectually,  I  have  never  had  an  opportunity  of  dis- 
covering ;  but  I  would  as  soon  think  of  going  to  luncheon  with 
one  of  my  brother's  footmen.  Is  that  plain  to  you  ?" 

By  his  purple  face  and  the  incoherent  sounds  that  were 
escaping  from  his  lips  she  gathered  it  was  plain  enough.  For- 
tunately, her  brother  came  in  at  that  moment  and  gave  her  an 
excuse  for  leaving  the  room. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  ?"  asked  Ralph  Hamon,  glower- 
ing at  the  man. 

"What's  the  matter  with  me?"  spluttered  Marborne.  "I'll 
tell  you  what's  the  matter  with  me,  Hamon.  That  sister  of 
yours  has  got  to  apologise  to  me  ...  throwing  my  manners  up 
in  my  face  .  .  .  telling  me  I'm  no  better  than  a  footman.  .  .  ." 


i36  THE  BLACK 

"I  guess  she's  right,"  said  Hamon,  his  lips  curling  at  the 
man's  hurt  vanity  and  self-pity.  "She  didn't  call  you  a  black- 
mailer by  any  chance,  did  she?  Because,  if  she  did,  she'd  have 
been  right  again.  Now  see  here,"  his  voice  was  like  a  rasp.  "I'm 
paying  you  money  because  you  stole  something  from  me,  and 
you're  using  the  threat  of  exposure  to  get  it.  I'll  go  on  paying 
money  just  so  long  as  I  have  to  buy  your  silence.  But  you  will 
confine  all  your  business  transactions  to  me.  You  will  have 
nothing  whatever  to  do  with  any  member  of  my  family,  by 
which  I  mean  my  sister.  You  understand  that  ?" 

"I'll  do  as  I  dam'  well  please !"  stormed  Marborne. 

"You're  drunk,"  said  Hamon  calmly.  "If  you  weren't  drunk 
you  wouldn't  have  made  a  fool  of  yourself.  See  me  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"I  want  Lydia  to  apologise  to  me,"  said  the  other  and  Hamon 
laughed  sourly. 

"Come  to-morrow  and  maybe  she  will,"  he  said.  "I  want  to 
go  to  bed.  Have  you  seen  Welling  ?" 

"Welling  ?  Yes.  What  made  you  ask  that  ?"  asked  Marborne 
in  surprise. 

"He  was  standing  outside  the  house  as  I  came  in,  that  is  all." 

Marborne  walked  to  the  window  and,  drawing  aside  the 
blind,  peered  out.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  road  he  saw  a 
man  standing  by  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk. 

"That's  Welling,"  he  agreed.  "What  does  he  want  ?" 

"He  has  tailed  me  up,"  growled  Marborne. 

"I'm  glad,"  said  the  other.  "I  was  afraid  for  the  minute  he 
was  tailing  me.  Have  a  drink  ?" 

Marborne  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"No,  thanks — if  I'm  going  to  be  poisoned  I'll  have  mine  at 
home." 

The  watcher  had  disappeared  when  Marborne  left  the  house. 
He  walked  to  the  corner  to  get  a  taxicab  and  though  he  looked 
back  several  times,  he  saw  no  sign  of  the  shadow.  He  went 
through  the  side  door  of  the  shop  which  constituted  the  en- 
trance to  his  flat,  and  waited  for  some  time  i&  the  dark  passage 
before  he  pulled  the  door  open  and  stepped  out.  There  was  still 


A  LOVE  CALL  137 

no  sign  of  Welling.  Possibly  Hamon  had  been  mistaken,  or  else 
Welling's  presence  had  been  sheer  coincidence. 

His  apartments  occupied  the  whole  of  a  floor  above  a  shop 
and  had  been  furnished  by  the  landlord  with  those  solid  and 
useless  articles  which  have  been  called  "furniture"  from  time 
immemorial.  A  buffet  that  he  did  not  use,  a  clock  that  did  not 
go,  a  table  at  which  it  was  impossible  to  write  and  a  three- 
branch  chandelier  only  one  lamp  of  which  was  practicable.  But 
on  the  buffet  was  a  tantalus,  and  pouring  himself  out  a  stiff 
glass  of  whisky,  he  drank  it  down. 

What  was  Welling  driving  at,  he  wondered.  And  what  sig- 
nificance was  there  in  his  reference  to  the  safe  ?  It  was  perfectly 
true  that  Marborne  kept  his  money  in  the  flat ;  and  he  did  this 
because  he  had  sufficient  intelligence  to  know  that  there  might 
come  a  moment  when  his  victim  would  make  it  necessary  for 
his  hasty  departure.  And  to  Marborne  money  was  not  real 
money  unless  it  was  visible.  A  balance  at  the  bank  meant  noth- 
ing except  figures  that  gave  him  no  satisfaction  whatsoever. 

He  stirred  the  fire  into  a  blaze,  took  off  his  dress  jacket  and 
went  into  the  bedroom.  Switching  on  the  light,  he  stood  in  tht 
doorway  and  the  first  object  on  which  his  eyes  rested  was  the 
safe.  It  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  supported  by  a  stout 
wooden  stand. 

He  looked  at  it  dully,  uncomprehendingly,  and  then  with 
a  shriek  of  rage  he  leapt  into  the  room  and  began  feeling  wildly 
m  its  dark  interior.  For  the  door  was  hanging  and  the  safe 
was  empty ! 

When  he  had  recovered  from  his  rage,  he  made  a  rapid 
search  of  the  apartment.  The  method  of  entrance  was  clear. 
The  thief  had  come  up  the  fire  escape,  broken  through  the 
window  of  the  bedroom  and  had  worked  at  his  leisure. 

He  dashed  downstairs  to  the  street  and  threw  open  the  door. 
Captain  Welling,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  his  head 
perched  on  one  side,  was  standing  on  the  sidewalk,  gazing  in- 
tently up  at  the  lighted  windows  of  the  flat. 

"Captain  Welling,  I  want  you !" 

Marborne's  voice  betrayed  his  agitation. 


i38  THE  BLACK 

"Anything  wrong?"  asked  Welling  as  he  came  over.  "Curi- 
ous my  being  here." 

"I've  been  robbed — robbed !"  said  Marborne.  "Somebody's 
broken  open  my  safe.  .  . ." 

He  led  the  way  up  the  stairs,  babbling  incoherently,  and 
kneeling  before  the  rifled  safe,  Welling  made  a  brief  examina- 
tion. 

"He  certainly  did  the  job  thoroughly,"  he  said.  "But  bur- 
glar-proof safes  are  easy  to  a  good  cracksman.  You'd  better 
not  touch  it  until  this  morning  and  we'll  have  it  photographed 
for  finger-prints." 

He  got  out  of  the  window  on  to  the  fire  escape. 

"Hullo !  What's  this  ?"  he  said  and  took  something  from  the 
landing  at  his  feet. 

"One  cotton  glove.  I  suppose  we'll  find  the  other  at  the  bot- 
tom. I  don't  think  it  is  necessary  to  bother  about  looking  for 
finger-prints." 

He  examined  the  glove  under  the  light. 

"And  you  couldn't  ttace  these  if  you  spent  a  week  of  Sun- 
days. I'm  afraid  he's  made  a  good  getaway.  How  much  money 
did  you  lose?" 

"Between  two  and  three  thousand  pounds,  I  think,"  whined 
Marborne. 

"Anything  else  ?" 

The  ex-inspector  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"What  else  was  there  to  lose?"  he  asked  surlily.  "Isn't  it 
enough  to  lose  two  thousand  ?" 

"Had  you  any  books,  any  documents  of  any  kind  ?" 

"No,  not  in  the  safe,"  said  Marborne  and  added  quickly: 
"nor  anywhere  else  for  the  matter  of  that." 

"Looks  like  The  Black's  work  to  me,"  mused  Welling,  com- 
ing back  again  to  the  safe.  "It  certainly  does  look  like  The 
Black's  work.  And  I  don't  see  how  it  can  be.  Have  you  got  a 
telephone  here  ?" 

"In  the  other  room,"  said  Marborne. 

Welling  put  through  a  long-distance  call  and  went  back  to 
make  what  he  knew  was  doomed  to  be  a  f  ruitless  and  hopeless 
search  for  clues. 


A  LOVE  CALL  13$ 

The  thief  had  evidently  not  been  satisfied  with  the  money 
he  had  found  in  the  safe.  Every  drawer  had  been  ransacked,  its 
contents  thrown  to  the  ground;  the  cupboard  had  been 
wrenched  open ;  a  trunk  beneath  the  bed  had  been  forced  and 
its  contents  strewn  about  the  floor.  Even  the  bed  had  been  dis- 
mantled, blanket  by  blanket,  sheet  by  sheet,  and  the  mattres? 
lay  half  on  the  floor  and  half  on  the  bedstead. 

Welling  went  back  to  the  dining-room.  There  were  no  cup- 
boards here  and  no  drawers,  save  three  in  the  sideboard,  which 
were  empty.  He  looked  round  the  walls.  One  of  the  pictures 
was  hanging  askew  and  he  nodded. 

"He  was  looking  for  something,  this  friend  of  ours.  What 
was  it  ?"  he  asked. 

"How  in  hell  do  I  know?"  demanded  Marborne  savagely. 
"He  didn't  get  it  anyway." 

"I  don't  know  how  you  can  say  that,  if  you  don't  know  what 
he  was  looking  for,"  said  Julius  gently. 

The  telephone  bell  rang.  It  was  the  call  which  Welling  had 
put  through  to  Creith. 

"Captain  Welling  speaking.  Is  that  you,  Milligan?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Where  is  your  man?" 

"He's  in  his  house — or  he  was  five  minutes  ago." 

"Are  you  sure  ?" 

"Absolutely  certain.  I  haven't  seen  him,  but  I've  seen  his 
shadow.  He's  here  all  right.  Besides  which,  he  hasn't  got  a  car ; 
it  went  to  Horsham  to-day  for  repair." 

"Oh,  it  did,  did  it?"  said  Welling  softly.  "All  right." 

He  hung  up  the  telephone  receiver  and  went  back  to  Mar- 
fcorne,  surveying  the  wreckage  helplessly. 

"You'd  better  'phone  the  divisional  police  and  ask  them  to 
send  a  man  up,  Marborne,"  said  the  old  chief.  "I  don't  think 
they'll  be  able  to  help  you — too  bad  your  losing  all  that  money. 
Banks  are  safer." 

Marborne  said  nothing; 


HO  THE  BLACK 


CHAPTER   XXX 
Sadi 

IF  THE  traveller  passed  up  the  narrow,  hilly  street  which  leads 
from  the  Mosque  to  Great  Sok  of  Tangier,  and  turned  abruptly 
to  the  right  as  though  the  Kasbah  were  his  objective,  he  would 
have  found  on  his  left  a  high  white  wall  pierced  only  by  a 
massive  gate  with  bronze-green  hinges. 

Behind  the  wall  was  an  untidy  garden  and  a  broken  stone 
fountain,  sufficiently  repaired  by  an  unskilful  European  work- 
man to  allow  a  feeble  jet  of  water  to  jerk  spasmodically  in  the 
air  before  it  fell  into  a  black  basin,  where,  amidst  the  rubbish 
of  years,  swam  languid  gold-fish. 

The  house  of  Sadi  Hafiz  stood  at  right  angles  to  the  wall,  an 
ugly,  lime-washed  barn  boasting  a  verandah  and  a  stoep  where, 
when  the  weather  was  warm,  Sadi  Hafiz  himself  sat  in  a  faded 
drawing-room  chair  drinking  mint  tea  and  smoking.  He  was 
a  tall,  pale  Moor  with  plump  cheeks  and  a  smear  of  beard,  and 
he  had  the  appearance  at  all  times  of  being  half-awake.  He  sat 
one  morning,  a  cigarette  drooping  from  his  full  underlip,  his 
dull  eyes  fixed  upon  a  wilted  geranium  in  the  centre  of  the 
court. 

The  Shereef  Sadi  Hafiz  was  a  man  who  had  held  many  posi- 
tions of  trust  under  many  governments,  but  had  not  held  them 
for  long.  He  had  served  two  sultans  and  four  pretenders,  had 
been  the  confidential  agent  of  six  European  and  one  American 
consulates  and  in  turn  had  robbed  or  betrayed  them  all.  A  lin- 
guist of  ability,  a  known  friend  of  the  brown-legged  men  who 
carried  their  rifles  into  Tangier  whenever  they  came  shopping, 
his  influence  reached  into  strange  and  distant  places,  and  he 
was  a  concession-monger  without  equal. 

There  came  to  him  at  the  sunset  hour  a  little  man  named 
Colport,  who  was  the  accredited  agent  in  Tangier  of  Mr.  Ralph 
Hamon's  companies. 


SAD  I  141 

"Good  evening — have  a  drink,"  grunted  the  shereef  in  Eng- 
lish. "Did  you  get  any  reply  to  your  cable  ?" 

"He  says  the  quarter's  allowance  is  not  due  for  a  month," 
said  Colport  and  the  Moor  spat  contemptuously. 

"Did  he  spend  twenty  pesetas  to  cable  that?  Allah!  If  it  is 
not  due  for  twenty  months  I  need  money  now,  Colport.  Is  he 


coming 


'I  don't  know ;  he  didn't  say." 

The  Moor  looked  at  him  from  under  his  tired  eyelids. 

"Is  Lydia  coming  with  him?  Of  course !  For  five  years  she 
has  been  coming,  and  for  five  years  she  cannot.  I  am  tired  of 
Hamon.  He  treats  me  worse  than  Israel  Hassim  the  Jew.  I 
give  him  companies,  he  makes  millions  and  all  I  see  is  the  allow- 
ance. Sha!  What  did  I  do  for  Hamon  years  ago?  Ask  him 
that!" 

Colport  listened  philosophically.  Sadi  was  for  ever  com- 
plaining, for  ever  hinting  of  mysterious  services;  he  never 
went  further  than  to  hint. 

"He  would  see  me  in  the  Kasbah,  chained  by  the  leg  and 
dying  for  a  centimo  measure  of  water.  And  I  have  two  new 
wonders  for  him — a  trace  of  silver  in  the  hills !  Ah  ha,  that 
makes  your  eyes  sparkle.  There  are  fifty  million  pesetas  in  that 
concession  alone.  Who  else  could  find  such  beauties  but  the 
Shereef  ?  I  am  the  most  powerful  man  in  Morocco — greater 
than  a  basha — greater  than  the  Sultan. . . ." 

He  grumbled  on  and  Colport  waited  for  his  opportunity.  It 
came  at  last. 

"Mr.  Hamon  says  he  will  let  you  have  your  quarter's  allow- 
ance and  five  hundred  sterling.  But  you  must  send  at  once  .  .  . 
wait." 

He  fished  out  the  cablegram  from  his  pocket  and  smoothed 
it  on  his  knee. 

'  'Tell  Sadi  I  must  have  another  Ali  Hassan' — what  does 
that  mean,  Sadi  ?" 

Sadi's  eyes  were  wide  open  now,  his  tobacco-stained  fin- 
gers were  caressing  his  hairy  chin. 

"He  is  in  trouble,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  thought  he  was.  Ali 
Hassans  do  not  grow  on  every  cactus  bush,  Colport." 


142  THE  BLACK 

He  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  thinking,  and  his  thoughts 
were  not  pleasant.  After  a  while  he  said : 

"Cable  to  him  that  it  will  cost  a  thousand,"  he  said.  "Bring 
the  money  to  me  in  the  evening  of  to-morrow.  Even  then  .  .  . 
but  I  will  see." 

He  clapped  his  hands  lazily  and  to  the  slave  girl  who  came : 

"Bring  tea,  you  black  beast,"  he  said  pleasantly. 

He  paid  Colport  the  unusual  honour  of  walking  with  him 
to  the  gate,  and  then  he  went  back  to  his  dingy  chair  and  sat, 
elbow  on  knee,  chin  in  hand,  until  the  call  to  prayer  sent  him 
to  his  perfunctory  devotions. 

He  rose  stiffly  from  his  knees  and  called  to  the  man  who 
was  his  scribe  and  valet. 

"Do  you  know  Ahmet,  the  mule  driver?" 

"Yes,  Excellency.  He  is  the  man  that  killed  the  money 
changer,  and  some  say  he  robbed  another  Jew  and  threw  him 
down  a  well.  He  is  a  bad  man." 

"Does  he  speak  English?" 

"Spanish  and  English,  they  say.  He  was  a  guide  at  Casa 
Blanca,  but  he  stole  from  a  woman  and  was  flogged." 

Sadi  inclined  his  head. 

"He  must  be  my  Ali  Hassan,"  he  said.  "Go  into  the  low 
houses  by  the  beach.  If  he  is  drunk  leave  him,  for  I  do  not 
wish  the  French  police  to  see  him.  If  he  is  sober,  let  him  come 
to  me  at  the  twelfth  hour." 

Tangier's  one  striking  clock  was  chiming  midnight  when 
the  servant  admitted  the  burly  figure  of  the  mule  man. 

"Peace  on  this  house  and  may  God  give  you  happy  dreams !" 
he  said,  when  the  white-robed  figure  of  the  shereef  con- 
fronted him  in  the  moonlight. 

"Ahmet,  you  have  been  to  England?" 

They  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  courtyard,  away  from  the 
ears  that  listened  at  three  lattice-covered  windows. 

"Yes,  Shereef,  manv  times  on  the  mule  ships  when  the 
War  was  on." 

"Go  now,  Ahmet.  There  is  a  man  who  needs  you.  Remem- 
ber that  I  saved  you  from  death  twice.  Twice,  when  the  rope 
was  round  your  neck,  I,  the  Shereef  Sadi  of  Ben-Aza,  pleaded 


JOAN  TELLS  THE  TRUTH  143 

to  the  basha  and  saved  you.  There  will  be  nobody  to  save  you 
in  England  if  you  are  a  fool.  Come  to  me  to-morrow  and  I 
will  give  you  a  letter." 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

Joan  Tells  the  Truth 

JIM  MORLAKE  returned  home  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing. At  half-past  three,  Spooner  saw  the  white  window  shade 
go  up  and  Jim  appeared,  silhouetted  against  the  bright  light 
of  the  room.  In  another  second  he  opened  the  French  win- 
dows and  stepped  out,  crossing  the  lawn  to  the  gate.  The 
detective  drew  back  to  the  shadows,  but  Jim's  voice  hailed 
him. 

"Is  that  you,  Finnigan,  or  is  it  Spooner?" 

"Spooner,"  said  the  officer  a  little  sheepishly,  as  he  came 
forward. 

"Come  inside  and  have  a  large  glass  of  ice  water,"  said 
Jim,  opening  the  gate.  "Pretty  cold  waiting,  wasn't  it?" 

"How  did  you  know  we  were  here?" 

Jim  laughed. 

"Don't  be  silly,"  he  said.  "Of  course  I  knew  you  were  here. 
Say  when." 

The  detective  drank  the  potion  that  was  offered  him  and 
smacked  his  lips. 

"I  think  it  is  silly,  too,"  he  said,  "wasting  a  good  man's 
time " 

"Two  good  men,"  corrected  Jim. 

"Don't  you  ever  get  any  sleep  ?"  asked  the  detective,  select- 
ing a  cigar  from  the  box  Jim  handed  him. 

"Very  rarely,"  replied  his  host  gravely.  "It  freshens  me 
Up,  walking  up  and  down  this  room." 


144  THE  BLACK 

"How  do  you  do  it?  I  only  notice  you  pass  the  window 
one  way." 

"I  walk  round  the  table  as  a  rule.  It  is  quite  a  good 
stretch,"  said  the  other  carelessly.  "What  I  principally 
wanted  to  speak  to  you  about,  Spooner,  was  to  ask  you  whether 
you  had  heard  anybody  shouting,  or  whether  insomnia  is 
getting  on  my  nerves  ?" 

Mr.  Spooner  shook  his  head. 

"I've  heard  nobody  shout.  It  must  be  your  imagination. 
From  what  direction  did  it  come  ?" 

"From  the  meadows  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,"  said 
Jim.  "But  if  you  didn't  hear  it,  it  is  not  worth  while  invest!^ 
gating." 

"Is  there  a  bridge?"  asked  the  detective,  glad  of  any 
diversion.  "What  sort  of  a  noise  was  it?" 

"It  sounded  like  a  cry  for  help  to  me,"  said  Jim.  "If  you 
think  it  is  worth  while,  I'll  get  a  lamp  and  we'll  go  and  look." 

He  lit  a  storm  lantern  and  they  crossed  the  lawn  to  the 
little  footbridge.  He  led  the  way  over  the  bridge. 

"It  was  from  this  field  that  the  cry  seemed  to  come,"  he 
said,  and  then  the  detective  saw  a  figure  lying  on  the  ground 
and  ran  toward  it. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Jim. 

"Looks  to  me  like  a  drunk.  Here,  wake  up !" 

He  dragged  the  inanimate  figure  to  its  knees  and  shook  it 
vigorously  by  the  shoulder. 

"Wake  up,  you!  It  is  the  young  man  who  lives  at  Mrs. 
Cornford's  cottage,"  said  Spooner  suddenly. 

"I  thought  I  recognised  him,"  said  Jim.  "I  wonder  how 
the  dickens  he  got  here.  Perhaps  you'll  see  him  home  ?" 

After  the  detectives  with  their  half-conscious  burden  had 
gone  their  staggering  way  to  the  village,  Jim  returned  to  the 
house.  Not  only  the  work  of  the  night  had  been  heavy — and 
Marborne's  burglar-proof  safe  had  been  one  of  the  hardest 
jobs  he  had  ever  tackled — but  the  responsibility  of  this  half- 
crazy  dipsomaniac  had  added  a  new  tax  on  his  strength.  He 
had  gone  back  for  the  car  he  had  left  near  Shaftesbury  Avenue 
and  had  deposited  the  drunkard  in  a  corner  just  in  time  to 


JOAN  TELLS  THE  TRUTH  145 

save  him  from  arrest.  Mr.  Ferdie  Farringdon  had  slept  in 
the  car  what  time  Jim  went  about  his  unlawful  occasions. 
He  had  slept  all  the  way  down  and  in  the  end  Jim  had  had 
to  half -carry  and  half -walk  him  from  the  place  where  he  had 
left  the  machine  to  Wold  House.  Here  he  had  settled  him 
comfortably  in  the  meadow  of  Creith  Hall  before  it  occurred 
to  him  that  he  might  utilise  the  detectives  who  were  watch- 
ing him,  to  save  the  sleeping  man  from  the  serious  conse- 
quences of  his  folly. 

He  went  up  to  his  bedroom,  counted  the  heap  of  notes  that 
he  took  from  an  inside  pocket,  put  them  in  an  envelope  and 
addressed  them,  before  he  placed  the  implements  of  his  craft 
in  the  secret  hole  beneath  the  carpet. 

He  had  failed,  but  his  failure  was  less  oppressive  to  him 
than  the  strange  story  that  Farringdon  had  told.  It  could 
not  be  Joan — and  yet,  her  father  was  a  peer;  she  had  the 
heart-shaped  scar  on  the  back  of  her  hand,  and  her  name  was 
Joan. 

"It's  preposterous!"  he  muttered.  "Preposterous!  How 
could  Joan  ruin  any  man's  life?  Why,  she's  only  a  child  .  .  ." 

It  was  the  mad  babble  of  a  drunken  man,  he  tried  to  tell 
himself,  but  reason  would  not  accept  that  explanation.  He 
made  a  resolve.  At  whatever  risk,  he  would  call  upon  Mr. 
Ferdinand  Farringdon  in  the  morning  and  ask  for  an  ex- 
planation. 

He  slept  for  four  hours,  and,  waking,  took  a  cold  bath  and 
dressed.  His  first  thoughts  on  waking,  as  were  his  last  thoughts 
on  sleeping,  revolved  about  the  dipsomaniac  and  his  strange 
statements. 

After  swallowing  a  cup  of  tea  that  Binger  brought  to  him 
he  mounted  his  horse  and  taking  the  side-road  that  misses 
the  village  came  to  the  gardener's  cottage.  He  had  never  seen 
Mrs.  Cornford  before  and  his  first  impression  was  a  correct 
one.  She  was  a  lady,  as  he  had  expected  her  to  be.  He  had 
heard,  not  from  Joan,  but  from  those  prolific  sources  of 
gossip  which  existed  in  Creith,  that  she  was  a  friend  of  the 
girl's. 

"My  name  is  Morlake,"  he  said,  watching  her  keenly.  "I'm 


i46  THE  BLACK 

glad  to  see  that  you  do  not  faint  at  the  approach  of  a  member 
of  the  criminal  classes,"  he  added,  as  she  smiled  her  recogni- 
tion of  his  name.  "I  want  to  see  your  boarder." 

"Mr.  Farringdon?"  Her  face  changed.  "I'm  afraid  you 
can't  see  him ;  he's  very  ill.  He  is  an  invalid,  you  know,  and 
he  went  out  yesterday  afternoon  when  I  was  shopping  in  the 
village  and  did  not  come  home  until  late  this  morning.  I  have 
just  sent  for  the  doctor." 

"Is  he  very  ill  ?"  asked  Jim.  "I  mean,  too  ill  to  see  me  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"I'm  afraid  he  has  fever;  his  temperature  is  high  and  he 
is  not  normal  in  other  ways.  Do  you  know  him  very  well?" 
she  asked. 

"Not  very  well.  I  know  something  about  him,  that  is  all." 

She  was  evidently  not  prepared  to  discuss  the  eccentric 
young  man  who  lodged  with  her,  and  Jim  had  to  return. 
He  turned  his  horse  and  rode  across  the  fields  to  No  Man's 
Hill,  a  ride  of  which  he  was  particularly  fond.  He  could 
learn  no  more  until  the  man  had  recovered — if  he  ever  did 
recover.  That  kind  of  person  had  nine  and  ninety  lives,  he 
reflected,  and  he  could  wait  until  he  sought  an  explanation 
from  a  saner  and  a  more  convincing  Mr.  Farringdon. 

It  was  freakish  of  him  to  turn  from  the  well-known  road 
to  send  his  horse  climbing  the  hill,  threading  a  slow  way 
between  the  pines  and  the  rhododendrons,  but  he  had  a  sudden 
desire  for  the  solitude  which  hill-tops  give  to  man.  He  could 
not  see  the  crest  for  the  surrounding  trees,  and  until  he  rode 
clear  to  the  flat  top,  he  was  unaware  that  there  was  another 
early  morning  rider.  Suddenly  he  came  face  to  face  with 
Joan.  She  was  sitting  her  horse,  a  quizzical  smile  in  her  eyes, 
and  she  laughed  aloud  at  his  look  of  surprise. 

"Father  came  back  to  Creith  last  night,"  she  said.  "Our 
humdrum  life  has  been  resumed,  and  we  expect  the  Hamon 
man  at  any  moment." 

"Congratulations !" 

"And  do  you  know  there  was  a  burglary  in  London  last 
night  ?  It  looked  very,  very  much  like  one  of  yours !" 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him  steadily. 


JOAN  TELLS  THE  TRUTH  14? 

"Base  imitation,"  said  Jim.  "Will  you  make  me  responsible 
for  every  robbery " 

"Was  it  you  ?"  she  asked. 

He  swung  from  the  saddle  with  a  laugh. 

"You're  a  most  disconcerting  young  lady,  and  I  shan't 
satisfy  your  curiosity." 

"Will  you  tell  me  it  wasn't  you?"  she  bent  down  toward 
him,  watching  him  closely. 

"Mr.  James  Morlake  refuses  to  make  any  statement;  this 
is  official,"  said  Jim. 

"It  was  you!"  She  caught  her  breath  in  a  sigh.  "I  was 
afraid  it  was,  though  they  are  perfectly  certain  in  the  village 
that  you  didn't  leave  Wold  House." 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  did  leave  Wold  House,  and  I  was 
in  London  last  night.  Whatever  evil  work  I  did,  at  least  I 
performed  one  kindly  action.  I  saved  a  young  man  from  being 
arrested  for  drunkenness,  and  I  brought  him  home  to  his  good, 
kind  Mrs.  Cornford." 

Her  face  went  deathly  white. 

"That  was  kind  of  you,"  she  said  steadily. 

"Do  you  know  this  man  ?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Has  he  any  reason  to  hate  you?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Joan,  are  you  in  some  kind  of  trouble  ?" 

"I'm  always  in  trouble,"  she  said  lightly,  "and  have  been 
since  I  was  so  high !" 

"I  see  you  won't  answer  me.  Will  you  tell  me  this?"  He 
found  difficulty  in  framing  the  words.  "Joan — if,  if  I  were 
not — if  I  were  a  respectable  member  of  society  and  could 
claim  to  be  ...  of  your  own  class — would  you  marry  me  ?" 

Her  eyes,  deep  and  sombre,  held  his  as  she  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

"Because  .  .  .  you  asked  me  about  Ferdie  Farringdon  just 
now." 

"Well?"  as  she  paused. 

He  saw  her  lick  her  dry  lips,  and  then : 


148  THE  BLACK 

"He  is  my  husband,"  she  said,  and,  pulling  round  her 
horse's  head,  she  sent  it  at  full  gallop  down  the  uneven  path. 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

Captain  Welling  Understands 

HE  WAS  dreaming,  he  told  himself  mechanically.  It  couldn't 
be  true ;  it  was  too  absurd  to  think  about.  She  had  been  shock- 
ing him  as  she  had  shocked  Lydia  Hamon.  Of  course  it  wasn't 
true.  How  could  it  be  ?  She  was  only  a  child.  .  .  . 

He  found  himself  with  drawn  reins  before  the  Cornford 
cottage.  He  could  go  in  there  and  learn  the  truth — could  drag 
it  from  the  drunkard.  Then  he  saw  the  doctor  coming  out 
and  the  old  man  nodded  to  him  cheerily. 

"How  is  your  patient  ?"  Jim  found  voice  to  say. 

"Pretty  bad.  I  think  he's  got  rheumatic  fever.  He  has 
little  or  no  resistance,  so  what  will  happen  to  him  heaven 
only  knows.  You  look  a  bit  under  the  weather,  Morlake.  I 
haven't  seen  you  since  you  came  from  your " 

"Since  I  came  from  Brixton  Prison,"  smiled  Jim.  "No,  I 
don't  think  we've  met.  You  needn't  worry  about  me,  doctor. 
I'm  as  fit  as  the  Derby  favourite." 

"My  experience  is  that  they  are  usually  unfit,"  growled 
the  doctor,  "though  you  never  discover  it  until  after  the  race 
is  won  and  you've  lost  your  money." 

He  walked  by  Jim's  side  into  the  village. 

"Queer  fish,  that  man  Farringdon,"  he  said,  breaking  the 
silence.  "A  college  man,  I  should  think,  but  a  queer  fish.  He 
is  quite  delirious  to-day  and  the  things  he  is  saying  would 
make  your  hair  stand  on  end.  Happily,"  he  said  after  a  mo- 
ment's thought,  "I  am  bald.  Ever  heard  of  the  Midnight 
Monks?" 

"Eh?"  said  Jim. 

"Midnight  Monks.  I  wonder  if,  in  your  wider  knowledge 


CAPTAIN  WELLING  UNDERSTANDS    149 

of  the  world,  you  may  have  heard  of  them.  Some  sort  of  secret 
society,  I  should  think.  He's  been  babbling  about  them  all  the 
time,  though  it  is  not  my  business  to  give  away  my  patient's 
secrets.  The  only  satisfaction  you  can  get  out  of  my  unpro- 
fessional conduct  is  that  I  shall  probably  give  away  yours. 
Hm !  The  Midnight  Monks  and  Joan,"  he  mused.  "I  wonder 
what  Joan  it  is?" 

Jim  did  not  answer  and  he  rambled  on. 

"It  is  a  common  enough  name.  Have  you  ever  noticed 
how  names  go  in  cycles?  All  the  Marjories  belong  to  '96; 
they're  contemporary  with  the  Doras  and  the  Dorothys.  And 
all  the  Joans  are  about  twelve  years  old.  Just  now  there  is  an 
epidemic  of  Margarets.  It  is  a  curious  world,"  he  added  in- 
consequent^ as,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  he  dived  into  his 
surgery. 

Jim  did  not  hear  him. 

That  must  be  the  explanation.  She  was  shocking  him  in 
her  impish  way.  He  told  himself  this  with  a  firmness  that 
sought  to  mask  his  act  of  self-deception. 

He  was  turning  into  Wold  House  when  a  big  Italian  car 
swept  past.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  face,  and  turning  his 
horse,  watched  the  car  out  of  sight.  Hamon's  presence  would 
bring  happiness  to  nobody,  he  reflected.  It  certainly  gave 
him  none. 

"The  hofficers  of  the  law  have  been  'ere,"  hissed  Binger 
melodramatically,  coming  half-way  down  the  drive  to  meet 
him. 

"Which  particular  hofficers?  And,  by-the-way,  I'll  have 
to  be  careful  or  I  shall  be  talking  like  you." 

"I  was  always  considered  a  very  classy  talker  in  my  military 
days,"  said  Binger  complacently.  "I  remember  once  my  col- 
onel telling  me " 

"Shut  up  about  your  colonel.  Let's  get  down  to  common 
busy  fellows.  Do  you  mean  Spooner  or  Finnigan?" 

"All  of  'em,"  said  Binger.  "He  saw  William — it's  funny 
his  name  being  William  and  mine  being  William " 

"It  is  so  funny  that  I'm  screaming  with  laughter,"  said 
Tim  impatiently.  "What  did  he  say  to  William  ?" 


ISO  THE  BLACK 

"He  wanted  to  know  whether  you  were  out  last  night. 
It  was  the  other  fellow  who  asked  the  question.  And  William 
said  that  so  far  as  he  knew  you  were  hindoors.  And,  of  course, 
I  knew  that  you  were  hindoors,  so  I  gave  my  testimony 
hunsolicited,  as  it  were." 

"When  did  they  go?" 

"They're  not  gone.  They're  in  the  study,"  said  Mr.  Binger. 
"And  the  other  gentleman — there  was  three — he  said  he  felt 
faint  and  would  like  to  sit  down  away  from  the  glare  of  the 
sun." 

"There  has  been  no  sun  for  a  month.  I  gather  the  other 
gentleman's  name  is  Welling.  It  sounds  rather  like  him." 

"That's  right,  sir — Mr.  Welling.  An  old  gentleman,  not 
ve'ry  right  in  his  head,  I  should  think — childish  as  a  matter  of 
fact.  He's  had  that  gramophone  on  the  table  and  has  been 
asking  what  the  little  holes  in  the  side  were  for.  It's  hawful 
to  see  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life  talk  like  that." 

"Horrible,"  agreed  Jim  in  all  sincerity. 

When  he  walked  into  the  study,  Welling  was  examining 
with  an  air  of  quiet,  detached  admiration  a  big  etching  that 
hung  over  the  carved  mantelpiece.  He  bent  his  head  sideways, 
looking  over  his  glasses  as  Jim  came  in. 

"Here  you  are  then,  Morlake,"  he  said.  "I  think  you're 
looking  remarkably  well." 

"The  village  doctor  has  just  passed  an  opinion  which  is 
directly  contrary,  but  I  guess  you  know,"  said  Jim  as  he 
shook  hands. 

"I  thought  I'd  look  you  up,"  said  Welling.  He  had  a  trick 
of  thrusting  his  chin  into  the  air  and  looking  down  at  his 
vis-b-vis.  The  taller  they  were,  the  farther  rose  his  chin.  His 
face  was  almost  turned  to  the  ceiling  as  he  regarded  Jim  with 
that  queer  pale  stare  which  had  broken  down  so  many  ob- 
durate and  uncommunicative  criminals. 

"I  only  discovered  last  night  that,  outside  of  all  my  knowl- 
edge, the  Yard  had  sent  two  men  down  to  shadow  you.  Now, 
that's  not  right,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "It  isn't  right  at 
all.  The  moment  I  discovered  this,  I  decided  that  I  would 


CAPTAIN  WELLING  UNDERSTANDS    151 

come  down  personally  and  withdraw  these  officers.  I  can't 
have  you  annoyed ;  you  must  have  your  chance,  Morlake." 

Jim  laughed  aloud. 

"I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt,  Welling,  that  you  were  the 
gentleman  who  sent  these  sleuths  to  watch  me,"  he  said. 

"And  I  have  less  doubt,"  said  Welling  frankly,  "that  I  did 
send  them !  That  is  the  worst  of  our  business,"  he  shook  his 
head  mournfully.  "We  have  to  lie !  Such  unnecessary  lies.  I 
sometimes  shudder  when  I  recall  the  stories  I  have  to  tell  in 
the  course  of  a  day.  That  is  a  nice  little  gramophone  of  yours. 
Have  you  any  records?" 

"Plenty,"  said  Jim  promptly. 

"Ah!  I  set  it  going  just  now." 

He  turned  the  switch  as  he  spoke  and  the  turn-table  slowly 
revolved. 

"Very  slow,  eh  ?  Now,  I've  been  thinking  that,  if  you  had 
a  lamp  on  the  top  of  that  turn-table  and  a  figure  cut  in  the 
shape  of  a  man,  so  placed  that  every  time  the  dial  turned  the 
shadow  fell  across  that  blind — how's  that  for  an  idea  ?  When 
I  write  my  little  text-book  for  burglars,  that  notion  is  going 
to  be  put  very  prominently — with  illustrations." 

Jim  turned  the  regulator  and  the  disc  spun  quickly. 

"It  only  shows  how  even  a  clever  plan  can  come  unstuck 
for  want  of  an  elementary  precaution,"  he  said.  "I  should 
have  turned  that  back  to  full  speed  if  I  had  been  a  criminal 
and  had  been  endeavouring  to  deceive  the  good,  kind  police. 
You  mustn't  forget  to  put  those  instructions  in  your  text- 
book, Welling." 

"No,  I  mustn't,"  agreed  the  other  warmly.  "Thank  you 
very  much." 

He  looked  round  at  Spooner  and  his  superior. 

"All  right,  sergeant,  I  don't  think  you  need  wait.  You 
can  take  Spooner  back  to  town  with  you  by  the  next  train. 
I  will  join  you  at  the  station.  In  the  meantime,  I  want  just  a 
little  private  talk  with  Mr.  Morlake — just  a  little  exchange 
of  reminiscences,  shall  we  say?"  he  beamed. 

He  walked  to  the  window  and  watched  the  twc  officers 
«tisappear. 


152  THE  BLACK 

,  "They're  very  good  fellows,"  he  said,  turning,  "but  they 
have  no  brains.  Beyond  that,  they  are  perfect  policemen.  In 
fact,  they  are  the  ideal  of  our  force.  Where  were  you  last 
night,  Morlake  ?"  He  asked  the  question  curtly. 

"Where  do  you  think  I  was?"  said  Jim,  taking  down  his 
pipe  from  the  mantelshelf  and  loading  it. 

"I  think  you  were  at  302,  Cambridge  Circus,  opening  the 
safe  of  my  friend  Mr.  Marborne.  When  I  say  'I  think'  I  mean 
I  know.  That  isn't  the  game,  Morlake,"  he  shook  his  head 
reproachfully.  "Dog  does  not  eat  dog,  nor  thief  rob  thief. 
And  that  Marborne  was  the  biggest  thief  that  ever  wore  a 
uniform  jacket,  heaven  and  the  Commissioner  know.  You 
made  a  killing,  but  did  you  get  what  you  wanted  ?" 

"I  did  not  get  what  I  wanted,"  said  Jim. 

"Then  why  take  the  money?" 

"What  money?"  asked  Jim  innocently. 

"I  see."  Captain  Welling  settled  himself  down  on  a  settee 
and  pulled  up  the  knees  of  his  trousers  as  outward  evidence 
that  he  intended  making  a  long  stay.  "I  see  we  shall  have 
to  bicker  awhile,  Morlake." 

"Don't,"  begged  Jim.  "I  only  take  money  when  the 
money  I  want  belongs  to  the  man  I  am  after." 

Welling  nodded. 

"I  guessed  that.  But  this  was  Marborne's  own — money 
dishonestly  earned,  and  therefore  his  by  right.  What  is  Mar- 
borne's pull  with  Hamon?" 

"Blackmail,  I  should  imagine — in  fact,  I  am  pretty  certain. 
He  has  come  into  possession  of  a  document  which  is  very 
incriminating  to  Hamon,  and  he  is  bleeding  that  gentleman 
severely ;  that  is  my  diagnosis." 

Again  Welling  nodded. 

"Now  we  come  to  the  one  mystery  that  intrigues  me,"  he 
said.  "There  is  a  document,  which  you  want  to  get,  and  which 
you  say  Marborne  has  got.  It  is  a  document,  the  publication 
of  which,  or  should  it  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  law  officers, 
would  lead  to  very  disastrous  consequences  to  Hamon.  Have 
I  stated  the  matter  right  ?" 

"As  nearly  as  possible,"  said  Jim. 


CAPTAIN  WELLING  UNDERSTANDS    153 

"Very  well,  then."  Welling  ticked  off  the  points  on  his 
finger-tips.  "First,  we  have  a  document,  a  letter,  a  state- 
ment, and  anything  you  like,  the  publication  of  which  will, 
let  us  say,  put  Hamon  in  a  very  awkward  position.  Now, 
tell  me  this:  is  there  anything  in  that  document  which  it  is 
absolutely  necessary  Hamon  should  keep?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Jim. 

"Then  why  on  earth  doesn't  he  destroy  it?"  asked  Well- 
ing in  amazement. 

A  slow  smile  dawned  on  Jim's  face. 

"Because  he's  a  monkey,"  he  said.  "He's  put  his  hand  into 
the  gourd  and  he  has  grasped  the  fruit;  he  cannot  get  his 
hand  out  without  letting  go  his  prize." 

"But  you  say  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  wording  of  this 
paper  which  can  possibly  advantage  him,  and  yet  he  does  not 
destroy  it !  That  is  incredible.  I've  heard  he  is  a  miser,  some- 
body told  me  that  he's  got  thirty  pairs  of  boots  that  he's 
hoarded  since  his  childhood.  But  why  on  earth  does  he  hoard 
a  thing  which  may " 

"Put  his  head  in  a  noose,"  suggested  Jim,  and  Welling's 
face  went  grave. 

"As  bad  as  that?"  he  asked  quietly.  "I  had  a  feeling  it 
might  be.  The  man  is  mad — stark,  staring,  raving  mad.  To 
hold  on  to  evidence  that  can  convict  him — why,  there's  no 
precedent  in  the  history  of  jurisprudence.  A  man  may  keep 
a  document  through  sheer  carelessness,  or  forgetfulness,  but 
deliberately  to  hoard  it!  Is  it  something  he  has  written?" 

Jim  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  something  written  by  another,  accusing  him  of  con- 
spiracy to  defraud  and  attempted  murder." 

Captain  Welling  was  a  man  who  was  not  readily  surprised, 
but  now  he  sat  speechless  with  amazement. 

"I  give  it  up,"  he  said.  "It  is  killing  Hamon,  anyway.  I 
saw  him  yesterday  and  he  looked  like  a  man  on  the  verge 
of  a  nervous  breakdown." 

"I  should  hate  to  see  Hamon  die — naturally,"  said  Jim. 
"He's  down  here,  by-the-way." 

Welling  nodded. 


154  THE  BLACK 

"Yes,  he  telegraphed  to  Lord  Creith  this  morning,  asking  if 
he  could  put  him  up.  He  has  sent  his  sister  away  to  Paris." 
He  scratched  his  chin.  "One  would  like  to  get  to  the  bottom 
of  this,"  he  said.  "I  have  an  idea  that  we  should  discover 
a  little  more  than  you  know  or  guess." 

"There  is  nothing  bad  about  Hamon  that  I  cannot  guess," 
said  Jim. 

He  liked  Welling  and  would,  in  other  circumstances,  have 
gladly  spent  the  day  with  him;  but  now  he  was  not  in  the 
mood  for  company  and  was  relieved  when  the  old  man  took 
his  departure.  Jim  was  sick  at  heart,  miserable  beyond  belief. 
The  shock  of  Joan  Carston's  declaration  had  stunned  him. 
She  would  not  play  with  him ;  she  must  have  spoken  the  truth. 
Twice  that  afternoon  he  found  himself  riding  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Mrs.  Cornford's  cottage,  and  once  he  stopped  and 
asked  after  the  patient,  and  his  enquiry  was  not  wholly  dis- 
interested. 

"He  is  very  ill,  but  the  doctor  takes  a  more  hopeful  view," 
said  the  lady.  "Lady  Joan  very  kindly  came  and  brought  some 
wine  for  him." 

A  little  pang  shot  through  Jim  Morlake's  heart,  but  he 
was  ashamed  of  himself  the  next  minute. 

"Of  course  she  would,"  he  said,  and  Mrs.  Cornford  smiled 
at  him. 

"You  are  a  friend  of  hers — she  spoke  of  you  to-day." 

"Do  you  know  anything  at  all  about  Mr.  Farringdon?" 
he  asked  her. 

"Nothing,  except  that  he  has  no  friends.  An  allowance 
comes  to  him  from  a  firm  of  lawyers  in  the  city.  I  wisb  I 
knew  where  I  could  find  his  relations,  they  ought  to  be  told. 
But  he  speaks  of  nobody  except  these  'Midnight  Monks'  and 
the  only  name  he  mentions  besides  that  of  a  girl  is  one  which 
seems  very  familiar  to  me — Bannockwaite.  It  has  some  sort 
of  significance  for  me,  but  I  can't  tell  what." 

Jim  had  heard  the  name  before  and  it  was  associated  in  his 
mind  with  something  unsavoury.  A  thought  struck  him.  He 
had  passed  Welling  in  the  village  street,  and  the  old  man  had 


CAPTAIN  WELLING  UNDERSTANDS    155 

told  him  that  he  was  staying  on  for  a  day  or  two  and  Jim  had 
asked  him  up  to  dinner.  He  rode  back  to  the  Red  Lion  where 
the  detective  was  staying  and  found  him  in  the  public  bar, 
the  least  conscious  of  its  habitues,  and  he  was  drinking  beer 
out  of  a  shining  tankard. 

"Do  you  know  anybody  named  Bannockwaite  ?" 

"I  knew  a  man  named  Bannockwaite,"  said  Welling  in- 
stantly, "and  a  rascal  he  was!  You  remember  the  case?  A 
young  parson  who  got  into  a  scrape  and  was  fired  out  of  the 
church.  There  was  nothing  much  wrong  with  him,  except 
natural  devilry  and  a  greater  mistake  than  choosing  a  clerical 
career  I  cannot  imagine.  Then  he  was  mixed  up  with  a  West 
End  gang  of  cardsharpers  and  came  into  our  hands,  but  there 
was  no  case  against  him.  When  the  War  broke  out  he  got  a 
commission — in  his  own  name,  remarkably  enough.  He  did 
magnificently,  earned  the  V.C.,  and  was  killed  on  the  Somme. 
You  probably  remember  him  in  connection  with  one  of  those 
societies  he  started.  He  never  actually  came  into  our  hands 
on  that  score " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  societies  ?" 

"He  had  a  mania  for  forming  secret  societies.  In  fact,  when 
he  was  at  school,  he  initiated  one  which  disorganised  not  only 
his  own  school  but  a  dozen  in  the  neighbourhood.  He  was 
something  of  a  mystic,  I  think,  but  devilry  was  his  long  suit." 

"What  was  his  school?  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  know  that?" 

"Curiously  enough  I  do.  It  was  Hulston — a  big  school  in 
Berkshire." 

Jim  went  back  and  wrote  to  the  headmaster  at  Hulston, 
hoping  most  fervently  that  the  schoolmaster  would  not  recog- 
nise him  as  the  hero  of  an  Old  Bailey  trial.  Late  in  the  after- 
noon he  saw  Hamon's  car  flash  past  toward  London  and 
wondered  what  urgent  business  was  taking  the  financier  back 
to  town.  Long  after  midnight  he  heard  the  peculiar  roar  of 
the  Italian  engine,  and,  looking  through  the  window,  saw  the 
car  returning. 

"He  is  a  very  busy  fellow  in  these  days,"  thought  Jim, 
and  he  thought  correctly,  for  Ralph  Hamon  had  spent  two 


156  THE  BLACK 

hours  in  a  profitable  interview  with  a  stranger,  who  had  ar- 
rived in  London  and  the  conversation  had  been  carried  on 
exclusively  in  Arabic. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 
The  Foreign  Sailor 

THERE  was  no  man  more  sympathetic  for  a  fellow  in  misfor- 
tune than  ex-Sergeant  Slone.  But  when  he  discovered  that 
the  misfortune  extended  to  himself,  Slone  was  inclined  to  be 
querulous. 

"I  don't  mind  you  doing  what  you  like  with  your  own 
money,  Marborne,"  he  said,  "but  there  was  four  hundred  of 
mine  in  that  safe  of  yours,  and  I've  been  asking  you  for  a 
week  to  put  it  in  your  bank." 

"You  wouldn't  have  had  the  money  if  it  wasn't  for  me," 
said  Marborne.  "Anyway,  there's  plenty  more  where  that 
came  from." 

"But  have  you  got  plenty  more  ?"  asked  the  practical  Slone. 

"He  sent  five  hundred  this  morning.  It  was  like  getting 
blood  out  of  a  stone,"  said  Marborne.  "Anyway,  we  shan't 
starve.  Slone,  I've  been  sitting  up  all  night,  thinking  about 
things." 

"I  don't  wonder,"  said  Slone,  his  gloomy  eyes  surveying 
the  empty  safe.  "That's  The  Black's  work,  nobody  else  could 
have  done  it  so  neatly." 

"What  did  he  come  for?" 

"Money,"  said  Slone  bitterly.  "What  do  you  think  he  came 
for — to  pass  the  evening  ?" 

"You  needn't  get  fresh  with  me,"  said  Marborne  sharply. 
"You'll  pay  the  same  respect  to  me,  Sergeant  Slone,  as  you 
did  in  the  old  days,  or  you  and  I  part  company.  I've  told 
you  that  before." 


THE  FOREIGN  SAILOR  157 

"I  meant  no  harm,"  growled  Slone,  "but  it  is  a  bit  of  a 
blow  losing  all  that  money." 

"The  Black  didn't  come  for  it.  He  took  it,  but  that  wasn't 
what  he  came  for.  He  came  for  this."  He  tapped  his  side  sig- 
nificantly. "And  that  is  what  The  Black  has  been  after  ever 
since  he  started  operations.  He's  been  after  this!  I  was  look- 
ing up  my  scrap-book  this  morning.  I've  got  every  one  of  The 
Black's  robberies  pasted,  and  I'll  tell  you  what  I  discovered 
— and,  mind  you,  Slone,  I  haven't  been  a  police  officer  for 
twenty-three  years  without  being  able  to  put  two  and  two 
together." 

"That's  natural,"  agreed  the  obliging  Slone.  "And  I'll  say 
this  of  you,  Marborne — there  wasn't  a  better  detective  officer 
at  the  Yard  than  yourself — not  even  Welling." 

"You're  a  fool,"  said  Marborne.  "Welling  could  give  me 
or  anybody  else  a  mile  start  and  lick  'em  sick.  Now  listen; 
every  bank  that's  been  burgled  has  been  a  bank  where  Hamon 
has  had  an  account.  In  all  banks  there  is  a  strong  room,  where 
customers  keep  their  private  documents,  and  it  invariably  has 
been  the  strong  room  that  was  burgled.  And  if  it  wasn't  a 
bank  it  was  a  safe  deposit,  where  Ralph  Hamon  had  a  private 
box.  And  he's  been  after  this."  He  tapped  his  side  again. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Slone,  consumed  with  curiosity,  and 
the  other  man  smiled  contemptuously. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  know?"  he  asked,  and  continued: 
"This  fellow  Morlake  is  a  rich  man.  I've  always  suspected 
he  was  a  rich  man " 

"Naturally  he's  rich,"  put  in  Slone  wrathfully. 

"Wouldn't  you  be  rich  if  you'd  pulled  off  forty-two  jobs 
and  got  away  with  thousands  and  thousands  of  pounds?  He's 
richer  by  four  hundred  of  mine " 

"Don't  interrupt  me.  He  is  a  rich  man  apart  from  that. 
And,  besides,  nobody  knows  that  he  has  taken  any  money." 

"I  know  he's  taken  ours,"  said  Slone  bitterly. 

"Fix  this  in  your  nut,  Slone.  It  is  just  as  likely  that  he 
would  pay  me  as  well  for  this,  as  old  Hamon  would." 

"He'd  sooner  pinch  it,"  said  Slone  with  conviction,  "like 
he  pinched  my  money.  I  wish  I'd  been  somewhere  handy!" 


158  THE  BLACK 

"You'd  have  been  a  dead  man  if  you  had,  so  what  is  the 
good  of  wishing?  I'm  going  to  think  this  over  and  if  I  have 

any  trouble  with  Mr.  Blinking  Hamon  to-morrow "  He 

snapped  his  fingers  significantly. 

Slone  went  home  early.  He  had  yet  to  recover  from  the 
shock  of  his  loss,  and  Marborne  was  left  alone.  He  had  plenty 
to  occupy  his  thoughts.  The  sting  of  Lydia  Hamon's  contempt 
still  smarted.  She  seemed,  at  that  moment,  less  the  woman 
of  his  dreams  than  she  had  been,  and  he  harboured  no  other 
emotion  in  his  bosom  than  a  desire  to  get  even  with  her  for 
her  gratuitous  insult. 

That  morning  he  had  sent  a  peremptory  demand  to  Hamon, 
and  had  received  a  paltry  five  hundred.  He  had  instantly 
despatched  a  second  message,  to  learn  that  Hamon  had  gone 
out  of  town,  which  Marborne  regarded  as  the  merest  subter- 
fuge, until  he  called  himself  and  interviewed  the  butler.  Miss 
Hamon  had  gone  too,  that  official  informed  him ;  she  had  left 
by  the  eleven  o'clock  Continental  train  and  was  expected  to 
be  absent  for  a  week. 

Although  the  night  was  chilly,  he  threw  open  the  windows 
to  let  in  the  light  and  sound  of  Cambridge  Circus.  Almost 
under  his  eyes  were  the  gay  lights  of  a  theatre.  He  sat  for 
some  time  watching  the  audience  arrive,  and  trying  to  recog- 
nise them,  for  he  had  an  extensive  acquaintance  with  West 
End  life. 

He  saw  a  tall,  thick-set  man  cross  the  road  at  a  run,  al- 
though there  was  no  fear  of  his  intercepting  the  traffic.  A 
foreigner,  Marborne  guessed.  He  watched  him  for  some 
time,  for  the  man  did  not  seem  quite  sure  of  his  destination. 
First  he  walked  along  one  sector  of  the  Circus,  then  he  came 
back  and  stood  undecidedly  on  one  of  the  islands  in  the  middle 
of  the  thoroughfare.  By  the  light  of  the  street  standard  Mar- 
borne  thought  he  was  a  seafaring  man.  He  wore  a  jersey  up 
to  his  neck,  a  thick  pea-jacket  and  a  cheese-cutter  cap.  Turn- 
ing his  eyes  away  to  watch  a  car  drive  up  to  the  theatre,  Mar- 
borne  lost  sight  of  the  stranger  and  he  passed  out  of  his  mind. 

He  closed  the  window  and,  taking  a  pack  of  cards  from  a 
drawer,  began  to  play  solitaire.  He  was  nervous,  jumpy; 


THE  FOREIGN  SAILOR  159 

he  heard  sounds  and  whispering  voices  which  he  knew  were 
born  in  his  imagination.  At  last,  unable  to  bear  the  solitude 
any  longer,  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out,  wandering  down 
Shaftesbury  Avenue  to  Piccadilly  Circus,  where  he  stood  for 
an  hour  watching  the  night  signs.  Here,  to  his  surprise  and 
relief,  he  came  upon  Slone. 

"I've  got  the  creeps,"  said  that  worthy.  "Marborne,  what 
do  you  say  to  making  a  big  haul  from  this  fellow  and  get- 
ting out  of  the  country?  You  remember  what  Welling  told 
you — that  the  north  of  Spain  is  healthy?" 

Marborne  nodded.  Something  of  the  same  idea  had  oc- 
curred to  him. 

"I  think  you're  right,"  he  said.  "I'll  wire  to  Hamon  in 
the  morning,  he's  staying  with  Lord  Creith ;  and  I'll  put  the 
matter  frankly  before  him.  It  will  be  Italy,  not  Spain." 

"Hamon  is  in  town,"  said  Slone  unexpectedly.  "I  saw  his 
car  passing  along  Coventry  Street,  and  he  was  in  it." 

"Are  you  sure  ?" 

"Well,  you  couldn't  mistake  him,  could  you?"  said  Slone 
scornfully. 

"Wait  a  bit."  Marborne  went  into  a  telephone  booth  and 
called  up  Hamon's  house. 

"It  is  no  good  lying,"  he  said,  when  the  butler  protested 
that  his  master  was  not  in.  "Hamon  was  seen  in  Coventry 
Street  an  hour  ago." 

"I  swear  to  you,  Mr.  Marborne,  he  has  gone  to  the  coun- 
try. I  know  he  came  back  to  town  to  do  some  business  because 
I  forwarded  a  coded  message  on  to  him  and  he  came  back 
for  ten  minutes — -not  longer.  He's  gone  away  again." 

"I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  is  telling  the  truth,"  said 
Marborne  when  he  reported  the  conversation.  "Anyway,  we'll 
see  him  to-morrow.'; 

He  parted  from  his  friend  in  Shaftesbury  Avenue  and 
walked  back  to  Cambridge  Circus,  feeling  a  little  more  cheer- 
ful than  he  had  been  when  he  came  out.  And  then  he  saw  the 
tall,  foreign-looking  sailor,  and  the  first  thing  that  impressed 
him  was  his  big  pale  face  and  his  tiny  black  moustache.  He  was 
standing  near  the  door  of  the  apartment  as  Marborne  inserted 


160  THE  BLACK 

the  key,  watching  the  ex-inspector  until  the  door  opened.  Then 
he  came  forward,  cap  in  hand. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  speaking  with  a  guttural  accent,  "but 
are  you  Marborne?" 

"That  is  my  name,"  said  the  other. 

"I  have  this  for  you."  The  stranger  held  up  a  large  envelope. 
"It  is  from  Mr.  Hamon.  But  first  I  must  be  sure  that  you  are 
Marborne." 

"Come  in,"  said  Marborne  quickly. 

Hamon  had  relented,  he  thought  joyously.  That  parcel  meant 
money  and  Hamon  employed  curious  messengers  at  times.  He 
opened  the  door  for  the  big  man,  who  had  come  silently  up  the 
stairs  behind  him,  and  the  messenger  passed  through.  He 
looked  hard  at  his  host. 

"You  are  Marborne  ?"  he  said.  He  spoke  English  with  great 
difficulty. 

"Yes,  I  am  that  gentleman,"  said  Marborne  almost  jovially, 
and  the  man  laid  the  package  on  the  table. 

"That  is  for  you,"  he  said.  "Will  you  please  open  and  give 
me  a  sign?" 

"You  mean  signature." 

"That's  the  word— signature." 

Marborne  wrenched  the  string  from  the  package  and  tore 
open  the  envelope.  For  a  second  his  back  was  to  the  visitor  and 
Ahmet,  the  muleman,  drew  a  curved  knife  from  each  pocket 
and  struck  inward  and  upward  with  a  deep-throated  "Huh !" 


(CHAPTER   XXXIV 
The  Cord 

WHAT  made  Marborne  raise  his  eyes,  he  did  not  know.  In  the 
glass  above  the  mantelpiece  he  saw  the  glitter  of  the  knife  and 
leapt  forward,  pushing  the  table  with  him.  He  had  turned  to. 


THE  CORD  161 

confront  the  assassin  and  in  that  instant  he  lifted  the  edge  of 
the  table  and  flung  it  over  against  his  assailant.  His  gun  came 
into  his  hand  and  the  lights  went  out  simultaneously;  for 
though  Ahmet,  the  muleman,  was  a  barbarian,  he  lived  in  a  city 
that  was  lit  by  electric  light,  and  he  knew  the  value  of  a  near-by 
switch. 

Marborne  heard  the  patter  of  his  feet  on  the  stairs  and  ran 
after  him,  tripping  and  falling  over  the  table.  By  the  time  the 
lights  were  on,  the  stairs  and  passage  were  empty.  There  was 
no  sign  of  the  sailor  in  the  street,  and  double-locking  the  door, 
he  came  back  to  his  room  and  reached  for  a  handy  whisky  bot- 
tle, and  he  did  not  trouble  to  dilute  the  fluid. 

"The  swine !"  he  breathed.  He  put  down  the  bottle  and  ex- 
amined the  letter  that  the  man  had  dropped. 

It  consisted  of  a  package  of  old  newspapers. 

So  that  was  it !  He  had,  as  Welling  told  him,  tinned  the  wild- 
cat and  the  cat  had  shown  his  claws. 

He  was  cool  now,  in  mind  if  not  in  body,  for  his  forehead 
was  streaming.  So  that  was  Hamon — the  real  Hamon,  who 
would  stick  at  nothing  to  get  back  the  thing  he  had  lost.  He  sat 
for  half-an-hour,  then,  rising,  took  off  his  coat,  his  vest,  his 
shirt,  and  then  the  silk  singlet  beneath.  Fastened  to  his  body 
with  strips  of  sticking  plaster  was  a  small  bag  of  oiled  silk, 
through  which  he  could  read  certain  of  the  words  which  ap- 
peared on  the  document  which  Hamon,  no  less  than  Morlake, 
so  greatly  desired. 

He  fixed  two  fresh  strips  of  sticking  plaster,  dressed  him- 
self, and,  examining  his  revolver  carefully,  slipped  it  into  his 
hip  pocket.  There  was  only  one  thing  to  be  done,  and  that  must 
be  done  immediately.  He  had  a  thought  of  calling  on  Slone, 
but  Slone  might  easily  complicate  matters,  and  he  decided  on 
the  whole  that  it  would  be  best  if  he  worked  alone.  He  must 
go  at  once,  before  the  would-be  murderer  recovered  from  his 
fright.  He  put  on  his  overcoat,  took  a  loaded  cane  from  the 
hall  stand,  and  went  out. 

Jim  Morlake  was  the  solution  to  his  difficulties  and  the  shield 
to  his  danger.  He  saw  that  with  startling  clearness.  Closing  the 


162  THE  BLACK 

door  behind  him,  he  looked  left  and  right,  but,  as  he  expected, 
there  was  no  sign  of  the  foreign-looking  sailor. 

A  cab  took  him  to  Victoria,  and  he  found  he  had  half-an- 
hour  to  wait  for  a  train  to  the  nearest  railway  junction.  An- 
other whisky  fortified  him  for  the  journey,  and  he  ensconced 
himself  in  the  corner  of  a  first-class  carriage  which  was  occu- 
pied by  two  other  men. 

At  eleven  o'clock  that  night,  Jim,  who  was  genuinely  work- 
ing in  his  study,  heard  feet  coming  up  the  gravel  drive,  and, 
opening  the  door,  was  audience  to  a  parley  between  Binger  and 
some  unknown  person.  Presently  Binger  came  in  in  a  state  of 
great  excitement. 

"It's  that  damned  Marborne,"  he  whispered. 

"Show  him  in,"  said  Jim,  after  a  moment's  thought. 

What  would  Marborne  be  wanting,  he  wondered  ?  That  he 
should  suspect  Jim  of  being  The  Black  was  natural,  but  he 
would  hardly  have  taken  a  journey  at  that  hour  of  the  night, 
either  to  express  his  reproaches  or  to  conduct  a  cross-examina- 
tion. 

"Bring  him  in  here." 

Marborne  was  looking  very  haggard  and  drawn,  he  thought. 
He  expected  trouble,  but  the  man's  attitude  and  manner  were 
civility  itself. 

"I'm  sorry  to  interrupt  you  at  this  time  of  night,  Mr.  Mor- 
lake,"  he  said,  "and  I  hope  that  you  won't  think  I've  come  to  see 
you  about  that  little  job  last  night." 

Jim  was  silent. 

"The  fact  of  the  matter  is,"  said  Marborne,  dropping  his 

voice,  "I'm  in "  Suddenly  he  spun  round.  "What's  that?" 

he  croaked. 

There  was  a  crunch  of  slow  footsteps  on  the  gravel  outside. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked  hoarsely. 

"I'll  find  out,"  said  Jim. 

He  himself  opened  the  door  to  the  visitor. 

"Come  in,  Welling.  You're  the  second  last  person  I  expected 
to  see." 

"And  who  was  the  first  ?"  asked  Welling. 

"An  old  friend  of  yours,  who  has  just  arrived — Marborne." 


THE  CORD  163 

The  white  eyebrows  of  Captain  Welling  rose. 

"Marborne !  How  interesting !  Has  he  come  down  to  get  his 
money  back  ?" 

"I  thought  that  at  first,"  said  Jim  good-humouredly,  "and 
of  course,  I  couldn't  very  well  refuse.  No,  I  think  it  is  some- 
thing more  serious  than  the  loss  of  money  that  is  bothering 
him." 

Marborne's  relief  at  seeing  Jim's  visitor  was  so  evident  that 
Jim  was  puzzled. 

"Expecting  a  friend,  Marborne?"  said  Julius  genially. 

"No — no,  sir,"  stammered  the  man. 

"I  thought  you  weren't.  You  can  put  your  gun  away.  Very 
bad  business,  carrying  guns.  I'm  surprised  at  an  old  police- 
man like  you  thinking  of  such  things.  A  good  stick  is  all  thatt 
a  policeman  needs — a  good  stick  and  the  first  blow !" 

Something  of  Marborne's  nerve  had  returned  at  the  sight  of 
the  man  who,  more  than  any  other,  had  been  responsible  for  his 
ruin.  He  seemed  suddenly  to  rid  himself  of  the  terror  which 
had  enveloped  him  like  a  cloud  a  few  moments  before. 

"I  won't  trouble  you  about  my  business  to-night,  Mr.  Mor- 
lake.  Perhaps  you  could  give  me  a  few  minutes  in  the  morrr- 
ing?" 

"If  I'm  in  the  way "  began  Welling. 

"No,  sir.  Where  can  I  sleep  to-night  ?  I  suppose  there's  an 
hotel  here?" 

"There  is  an  inn,"  said  Welling,  "the  Red  Lion.  I'm  staying 
there  myself.  But  I  can  wait ;  my  business  isn't  very  impor- 
tant. I  merely  wanted  to  ask  Mr.  Morlake  a  question  or  two." 

"No,  the  morning  will  do,"  said  Marborne. 

He  had  come  to  a  definite  decision.  Hamon  should  have  his 
last  chance.  He  was  here,  within  a  stone's  throw.  In  the  morn- 
ing he  would  make  his  offer,  and  perhaps,  with  the  accusation 
of  an  attempted  murder  hanging  over  his  head,  Hamon  would 
pay  more  handsomely  and  more  readily. 

"You'll  find  two  other  friends  of  yours  waiting  outside — 
Milligan  and  Spooner,"  said  Julius  Welling.  "Don't  corrupt 
them,  Marborne !" 


i64  THE  BLACK 

"I  thought  you'd  sent  your  bloodhounds  back  to  town?" 
asked  Jim  when  Marborne  had  gone. 

"I  did,  but  the  man  who  was  responsible  for  their  being 
here  sent  them  back  to  Creith  by  the  next  train.  In  our  service, 
Mr.  Morlake,  it  is  a  great  mistake  for  one  department  to  butt 
into  the  affairs  of  another.  Messrs.  Spooner  and  Milligan  are 
not  in  my  department." 

He  chuckled  at  this  little  comedy  of  inter-departmental 
dignity. 

"But  I'll  shift  them.  I'll  have  them  moved  for  you.  I  came 
up  to-night  to  tell  you  that  they  were  here — I  shouldn't  like 
you  to  think  that  I'd  broken  a  promise.  To-morrow  I  will  apply 
humbly  to  the  superintendent  whom  I  asked  to  send  these  men, 
that  he  will  be  gracious  enough  to  withdraw  them,  and  they  will 
be  withdrawn.  What  is  wrong  with  Marborne?" 

"I  don't  know.  He  talked  about  being  in  something — I  think 
he  was  going  to  say  'danger.'  Maybe  he  has  been  drinking." 

Welling  shook  his  head. 

"He  wasn't  drunk,"  he  said.  "I  wonder  what  he  means  ?"  He 
Was  talking  to  himself.  "We'll  have  him  back,  Morlake.  He'll 
be  talking  with  those  fellows  of  mine." 

They  went  out  into  the  road  together  and  the  two  detectives 
ivho  were  waiting  for  Welling's  return  came  over  to  them. 

"Is  Marborne  there  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Milligan. 

"Has  he  gone?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  sir.  I  haven't  seen  him." 

"You  haven't  what?"  almost  shouted  Welling.  "Didn't  he 
come  out  of  this  gate  two  minutes  ago?" 

"No,  sir,"  the  two  men  spoke  together.  "Nobody  came  out 
of  that  gate  until  you  came  out." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Have  either  of  you  men  got  a  lamp?" 

For  answer,  Milligan's  pocket  torch  shot  a  fan  of  light  on  to 
the  ground,  and,  seizing  the  lamp,  Welling  walked  back,  sweep- 
ing the  drive  from  left  to  right. 

Half-way  between  the  gates  and  the  house  he  stopped  and 
turned  the  light  on  to  the  bushes  that  bordered  the  drive. 


THE  LETTER  THAT  CAME  BY  POST     165 

Marborne  lay  face  downward.  There  was  a  slight  wound  at 
the  back  of  his  head,  but  it  was  the  knotted  silk  cord  wound 
tightly  around  his  throat  that  had  killed  him. 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

The  Letter  That  Came  by  Post 

"HE'S  dead,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Jim,  at  the  end  of  half-an-hour's 
work  on  the  still  figure  that  lay  on  the  floor  of  the  study. 

Stripped  to  his  singlet,  he  had  applied  artificial  respiration, 
but  without  effect.  The  man  must  have  died  a  few  seconds  be- 
fore they  found  him. 

"Thorough !"  said  Welling,  biting  his  lip  thoughtfully,  "very 
thorough  and  very  quick.  Searched  to  the  skin,  you  notice." 

The  dead  man's  clothes  had  been  torn  open,  so  that  his  breast 
was  exposed. 

"That  is  where  the  mystery  was  hidden — fastened  to  his 
skin.  It  is  an  old  dodge,  which  Marborne  must  have  learnt 
in  the  course  of  his  professional  career." 

Milligan  returned  from  a  search  of  the  grounds,  to  report 
failure. 

"We  can  do  nothing  till  daylight,  except  warn  the  local  po«. 
lice.  Put  a  call  through,  Spooner.  Turn  out  all  the  men  you  can 
find  to  search  the  meadows ;  the  murderer  must  have  gone  that 
way  because  he  could  not  have  come  out  of  the  gate.  He  may 
make  for  one  of  the  woods,  but  that  is  doubtful.  You  know 
the  topography  of  the  country,  Morlake ;  which  way  would  he 
have  gone  ?" 

"It  depends  entirely  whether  he  knew  it  also,"  said  Jim.  "I 
suggest  the  footbridge  across  the  river  and  the  riverside  path 
to  the  Amdon  Road.  But  there  are  half-a-dozen  ways  that  he 
may  have  gone  if  he  can  climb,  and  I  should  imagine  that,  if 


16*  THE  BLACK 

you  make  an  inspection  of  the  walls,  you  will  find  that  he  ha' 
gone  that  way." 

But  here  he  was  wrong. 

Neither  daylight  nor  beaters  brought  the  murderer  into  their 
hands.  The  only  discovery — and  that  was  of  first  importance 
— was  made  by  Spooner,  who  found,  on  the  towpath,  a  long, 
curved  knife  which  the  assassin  had  dropped  in  his  hurry. 

"Moorish,"  said  Jim.  "That  is  to  say,  made  in  Birmingham 
and  sold  in  Morocco.  It  is  a  type  that  is  greatly  favoured  by 
the  countryfolk,  and  unless  it  is  a  blind  I  think  you  can  issue 
an  order  to  pull  in  any  Moor  who  is  found  within  twenty  miles 
of  this  place  in  the  next  few  hours." 

The  only  information  that  came  to  them  was  that  a  foreign- 
looking  sailor  had  been  seen  on  the  Shoreham  Road,  but  he 
was  not  black,  added  the  report  virtuously.  Welling  brought 
the  wire  to  Jim. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  clever  lads?"  he  groaned.  "Nor 
black !  I  suppose  they  expected  to  see  a  coal-black  nigger.  What 
colour  would  he  be  ?" 

"White,  as  likely  as  not,"  said  Jim.  "Many  of  the  Moors 
are  whiter  than  you  or  I." 

The  London  police  had  searched  Marborne's  apartments, 
and  his  friend  had  been  interviewed.  Slone's  evidence  was 
that  he  had  seen  the  dead  man  only  the  previous  night.  He  had 
told  him  that  he  was  nervous  and  mentioned  the  fact  that  he 
had  seen  a  foreign  sailor  in  Cambridge  Circus  who  seemed  to 
have  lost  himself. 

"That  is  our  man,"  said  Welling.  "He  went  to  Marborne's 
flat  and  there  was  a  fight.  The  dining-room  was  in  disorder, 
tables  and  chairs  overthrown,  and  they  found  a  dummy  letter 
addressed  to  Marborne,  which  is  probably  the  excuse  on  which 
the  man  secured  admission.  Marborne  must  have  fought  him 
off  and  come  down  to  you." 

"Why?" 

"Obviously  because  he  wanted  to  sell  you  the  document 
with  which  he  was  blackmailing  Hamon.  Therefore,  he  must 
have  thought  that  Hamon  employed  the  Moor  to  kill  him. 
Therefore,  again,  Hamon  must  be  privy  to  this  murder,  and«" 


THE  LETTER  THAT  CAME  BY  POST    167 

he  added  in  despair,  "there  is  not  enough  evidence  against 
Hamon  even  to  justify  a  search  warrant!" 

Welling  had  made  Wold  House  his  headquarters — a  singu- 
lar choice,  thought  and  said  Ralph  Hamon  when  he  was  sum- 
moned to  meet  Julius  Welling  in  Jim's  study. 

"It  may  be  amusing  and  it  may  be  tragic,"  said  Julius,  no 
longer  gentle,  "but  this  place  is  good  enough  for  me,  and  there- 
fore I'm  afraid  it  must  be  good  enough  for  you.  You  know  the 
news,  Mr.  Hamon?" 

"That  Marborne  is  killed  ?  Yes,  poor  fellow !" 

"A  friend  of  yours  ?" 

"I  knew  him.  Yes,  I  could  almost  say  that  he  was  a  friend  of 
mine,"  said  Hamon. 

"When  did  you  see  him  last  ?" 

"I  haven't  seen  him  for  several  days." 

"Was  your  interview  a  friendly  one  ?" 

"Very.  He  came  to  me  to  borrow  some  money  to  start  a- busi- 
ness." 

"And  you  lent  it  to  him,  of  course?"  said  Welling  dryly. 
"And  that  is  intended  to  explain  the  financial  transactions  be- 
tween you  and  him?" 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  demanded  Ralph  Hamon.  "Are  you 
suggesting  that  I'm  lying?" 

"I'm  telling  you  you're  lying,"  said  Welling  shortly.  "I  sug- 
gest nothing  when  I'm  investigating  a  charge  of  murder.  I 
tell  you  again  that  you're  lying.  You  gave  him  money  for  a  pur- 
pose of  your  own.  He  had  some  document  in  his  possession 
which  you  were  anxious  to  recover,  and  since  he  would  not 
return  it  to  you,  you  paid  him  large  sums  of  money  by  way  of 
blackmail." 

Hamon's  face  was  grey. 

"You're  making  a  statement  which  may  be  investigated  in  a 
court  of  law." 

"It  certainly  will,  if  I  catch  the  murderer,"  said  Welling 
grimly. 

"Has  it  occurred  to  you,"  sneered  Hamon,  "that  this  man 
Harborne  was  an  enemy  of  Morlake's,  and  that  he  was  found 
dead  in  his  grounds  ?" 


i68  THE  BLACK 

"It  has  occurred  to  me  many  times  in  the  night,"  said  Well 
ing.  "Only,  unfortunately  for  your  theory,  Morlake  was  with 
me  when  this  man  was  killed,  and  the  package,  which  was 
affixed  to  his  body  by  strips  of  sticking  plaster,  was  taken." 

He  saw  the  light  come  into  Ralph  Hamon's  eyes  and  the 
drawn  look  of  terror  seemed  instantly  to  disappear.  It  was  the 
most  wonderful  facial  transformation  that  he  had  seen  in  his 
long  experience. 

"You  didn't  know  it,  eh  ?  Yes,  your  man  got  the  package  all 
right." 

"My  man?"  said  Hamon  instantly.  "What  do  you  mean? 
You  had  better  be  careful,  Welling.  You're  not  so  powerful 
a  man  at  headquarters  that  you  cannot  be  pulled  down !" 

"And  you're  not  so  wonderful  a  fellow  that  you  couldn't 
be  hanged,"  said  Welling  good-naturedly.  "Come,  come,  Mr. 
Hamon,  we  don't  want  to  quarrel ;  we  want  to  get  at  the  truth. 
Is  it  true  that  Marborne  blackmailed  you?  I'll  save  you  a  lot 
of  trouble  by  telling  you  that  we  have  absolutely  convincing 
proof  that  he  did  so  blackmail  you.  Slone  has  told  us." 

Hamon  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"What  Slone  told  you  is  of  no  interest  to  me.  I  can  only 
tell  you  that  I  lent  money  to  this  unfortunate  man  in  order  to 
start  him  in  business,  and  if  you  have  any  proof  to  the  con- 
trary, you  may  produce  it.'* 

Nobody  knew  better  than  he  that  no  such  proof  existed. 
Welling  knew  that  his  bluff  had  failed,  but  that  did  not  greatly 
worry  him.  He  tried  a  new  tack. 

"You  have  been  sending  a  number  of  cables  to  Morocco  re- 
cently, mainly  in  code,  one  especially  in  which  you  referred  to 
Ali  Hassan.  Who  is  he?" 

Again  that  look  of  anxiety  came  to  Hamon's  face,  only  to 
vanish  instantly  and  leave  him  his  cool,  smiling  self. 

"Now  I  understand  why  they  call  detectives  'busies,' "  he 
said.  "You've  had  a  very  busy  night !  Ali  Hassan  is  a  brand  of 
Moorish  cigar !" 

He  looked  at  Jim  and  Jim  nodded  in  confirmation. 

"That  is  true.  It  is  also  the  name  of  a  notorious  Moorish 
murderer  who  was  hanged  twenty-five  years  ago." 


THE  LETTER  THAT  CAME  BY  POST    169 

"Then  take  your  choice,"  said  Hamon  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"This  is  your  writing  ?"  An  envelope  was  suddenly  produced 
from  behind  Welling's  desk  and  thrust  under  the  eyes  of  the 
other. 

"No,  it  isn't  my  writing,"  said  Hamon  without  hesitation. 
"What  do  you  suggest,  Inspector  ?" 

"I  suggest  that  Marborne  was  killed  by  a  Moor,  who  was 
specially  brought  to  this  country  for  the  purpose  by  you." 

"In  other  words,  that  I  am  an  accessory  before  and  after  this 
murder  ?" 

Welling  nodded. 

"If  the  idea  wasn't  amusing,  I  should  be  very  angry,"  said 
Hamon,  "and  in  all  the  circumstances,  I  decline  to  give  you 
any  further  information."  He  paused  at  the  door  carefully  to 
fold  the  top  of  his  soft  felt  hat.  "And  you  cannot  force  me — 
nobody  knows  that  better  than  you,  Captain  Welling.  You 
understand — I  will  give  you  no  further  information." 

Welling  nodded. 

"He  has  already  given  us  more  than  lie  knows,"  he  said  when 
the  door  had  closed  upon  the  unwilling  witness.  "Who  is  Sadi 
Hafiz?" 

"He  is  a  poisonous  rascal  who  lives  in  Tangier,"  said  Jim 
without  hesitation,  "a  man  entirely  without  scruple  but  im- 
mensely useful  to  people  like  Hamon  and  other  shady  company 
promoters  who  want  a  plausible  proposition  to  put  before  the 
public.  He  is  an  agent  of  Hamon's.  I  knew  him  years  ago — 
in  fact  we  had  a  slight  shooting  match — when  I  was  employed 
on  the  survey  of  a  suggested  Fez  railway.  There  were  remark- 
able stories  about  him,  some  of  them  incredible.  He  is  certainly 
the  pensioner  of  half-a-dozen  interests,  and,  I  should  imagine, 
has  more  serious  crime  or  what  passes  for  crime  on  his  con- 
science than  any  other  man  in  Morocco." 

"Murder,  for  instance  ?"  asked  Welling. 

Jim  smiled. 

"I  said  'serious  crimes.'  Murder  isn't  a  serious  crime  in  the 
Rifi  Hills." 

Welling  scratched  his  nose  again. 

"If  we  catch  this  Moorish  fellow,  he'll  talk." 


lyo  THE  BLACK 

"He'll  say  nothing  against  Sadi  Hafiz,"  said  Jim  promptly. 
"These  shereefs  are,  in  a  sense,  holy  men.  Sadi  Hafiz  could 
not  pass  through  the  streets  of  Tangier  without  having  the  hem 
of  his  garments  frayed  by  kissing,  and  our  murderer  will  die 
without  saying  a  word  to  incriminate  Sadi  or  any  other  per- 
son." 

The  story  of  the  murder  came  to  Joan  through  her  agitated 
maid,  and  at  first  she  was  seized  with  a  panic. 

"In  Mr.  Morlake's  garden?  Are  you  sure?"  she  faltered. 

"Yes,  miss.  Mr.  Welling,  a  London  gentleman,  and  Mr. 
Morlake  found  him,  and  it  was  only  a  minute  or  two  after  the 
poor  man  had  left  them  that  he  was  killed.  Everybody  is  say- 
ing k  is  a  judgment  on  the  village  for  letting  Mr.  Morlake 
stay  here." 

"Then  you  can  tell  everybody  they're  fools,"  said  Joan  re- 
lieved. 

"And  they  say  that  poor  gentleman  at  Mrs.  Cornford's  is 
dying." 

Joan  did  not  make  any  reply  to  this.  Later  in  the  morning 
she  went  down  to  the  cottage  and  learnt  that  the  maid's  fears 
were  exaggerated. 

At  luncheon  that  day  the  murder  was  naturally  the  absorb- 
ing interest  of  conversation,  but  to  Lord  Creith  alone. 

"By  gad !"  he  said  with  satisfaction.  "The  jolly  old  village 
is  coming  on !  Haven't  had  a  murder  here  for  three  hundred 
years.  I  was  looking  up  the  old  records.  A  gypsy  murdered  an- 
other gypsy  and  was  hanged  at  the  top  of  No  Man's  Hill.  They 
called  it  Gibbet  Hill  for  a  hundred  years.  What  is  your  theory, 
Hamon  ?  I  understand  you  went  down  and  saw  the  police  ?" 

"I  saw  the  police — yes,"  said  Hamon  shortly,  "but  what  is 
the  sense  of  discussing  the  matter  with  men  of  their  limited 
intelligence?  Welling  is  an  old  dotard,  entirely  under  the 
thumb  of  that  damned  thief " 

"That  thief,"  corrected  Lord  Creith  with  a  bland  smile.  "We 
never  damn  anybody  at  this  table  unless  my  daughter  is — er — 
not  here.  You  were  talking  about  Morlake,  of  course  ?  So  the 
police  are  under  his  thumb  ?  Well,  well,  we  are  getting  on  1  I 


THE  LETTER  THAT  CAME  BY  POST    171 

thought  Welling  was  an  exceptionally  bright  man;  and  for 
his  being  old,  he  is  two  years  younger  than  I,  and  nobody  could 
call  me  old!  Oh,  by  the  way,  Joan,  that  young  man  who  is 
staying  with  Mrs.  Cornford  and  is  so  ill— do  you  know  who 
he  is?" 

Her  lips  moved,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"He  is  young  Farringdon — Sir  Willoughby  Farringdon's 
son.  You  remember  old  Farringdon  ?  The  boy  was  at  Hulston 
College.  You  were  at  a  school  near  Hulston  of  course !  Yes,  he 
is  young  Farringdon — a  sad  rascal.  He  got  into  some  scrape  at 
school  and  was  kicked  out.  Old  Willoughby  never  forgave  him. 
I  think  he's  been  drinking  too,  but  that  is  the  old  man's  fault. 
All  the  Farringdons  drank  too  much.  I  remember  his  grand- 
father . . ." 

The  girl  sat  rigid,  listening  without  comment. 

"Hulston  turned  out  some  queer  birds,"  said  the  earl  remi- 
niscently.  "There  was  that  fellow  Bannockwaite,  the  rascal! 
The  fellow  that  started  all  those  tomfool  societies  in  the  schools 
and  demoralised  them  most  devilishly.  You  remember  him, 
Joan?" 

"Yes,  Father,"  she  said,  and  something  in  her  tone  made 
Hamon  look  at  her.  She  was  white  to  the  lips.  Following  the 
direction  of  his  guest's  eyes,  Lord  Creith  jumped  up  and  went 
to  her  side. 

"Is  anything  wrong,  Joan?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"I  feel  a  little  faint — I  don't  know  why.  The  day  has  been 
rather  an  exciting  one.  Will  you  excuse  me,  Daddy  ?" 

He  took  her  upstairs  himself  and  did  not  leave  her  until  he 
had  brought  half  the  household  to  her  side. 

Lord  Creith  went  down  to  the  village  and  in  a  frenzy  of  in- 
vestigation found  himself  ringing  the  bell  of  Wold  House.  It 
was  his  first  visit  and  Jim  was  flabbergasted  to  see  him. 

"Come  in,  Lord  Creith,"  he  said.  "This  is  a  very  unexpected 
honour." 

"If  I  didn't  call  now,  I  never  should,"  said  the  earl  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye.  "I  want  to  know  all  about  this  murder,  and 
most  of  the  police  theories." 


172  THE  BLACK 

Jim  was  silent.  He  could  not  detail  views  which  were  unflat« 
tering  to  Lord  Creith's  guest.  So  he  limited  his  narrative  to  a 
very  full  description  of  what  happened  on  the  night  Marborne 
was  killed,  and  the  earl  listened  attentively.  As  chief  of  the 
local  magistrates,  it  would  be  his  duty  to  conduct  the  prelimi- 
nary enquiry  if  a  charge  was  brought. 

"It  is  a  most  extraordinary  happening,"  he  said  when  Jim 
had  finished,  "wholly  oriential  in  design  and  execution.  I  lived 
for  some  years  in  India  and  that  type  of  murder  is  not  new  to 
me.  Now  what  are  the  police  theories  ?" 

But  here  Jim  excused  himself,  and,  seeing  through  the  win- 
dow Welling  engaged  in  directing  the  measurements  which 
were  being  taken,  he  seized  the  opportunity  of  taking  his  lord- 
ship to  the  fountain-head. 

"The  curious  thing  is,"  said  Lord  Creith,  "that  I  had  a  feel- 
ing that  something  unusual  had  happened.  I  woke  an  hour 
earlier  than  I  ordinarily  do.  I  should  have  heard  about  it  at 
once  from  the  postman,  who  is  a  great  gossip,  but  for  some  rea- 
son or  other,  we  had  no  early  morning  post  to-day.  In  fact," 
Lord  Creith  meandered  on,  "only  one  letter  came  to  Creith 
House  to-day  and  that  was  at  eleven  o'clock  and  even  that  was 
not  for  me,  but  for  my  guest." 

Welling  spun  round. 

"For  Mr.  Hamon?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"Yes." 

"From  London  ?" 

"No,  curiously  enough,  it  wasn't  from  London ;  it  was  from 
a  little  village  about  eight  miles  from  here.  I  meant  to  ask 
Hamon  who  the  dickens  his  correspondent  was,  but  probabhf 
he  is  buying  property  in  the  neighbourhood — in  fact,  I  know 
he  is,"  he  added  grimly. 

"What  was  the  name  of  the  village?" 

"Little  Lexham." 

The  detective  frowned  in  an  effort  of  concentration.  If  it 
came  by  the  eleven  o'clock  mail,  it  would  have  been  posted  that 
morning. 

"Was  it  a  thick  letter?" 

"Yes.  The  first  impression  I  had  was  that  it  had  a  pocket 


THE  LETTER  THAT  CAME  BY  POST    173 

handkerchief  in  it.  Why  do  you  ask  these  questions?  Surely 
my  guest's  correspondence  does  not  interest  you,  Captain 
Welling?" 

"It  interests  me  very  much.  You  don't  remember  the  hand- 
writing?" 

Lord  Creith's  brows  met. 

"I  don't  quite  get  the  tendency  of  this  inquiry,"  he  said, 
"but  I  did  notice  the  handwriting.  It  was  addressed  in  printed 
characters." 

"Was  the  envelope  a  thick  one  ?" 

"Yes,  I  should  say  it  was.  I  remember  it  because  it  was 
covered  with  dirty  finger-marks,  and  I  asked  the  postman  who 
had  been  handling  the  mail." 

Welling  made  up  his  mind  quickly. 

"I  am  going  to  take  you  into  my  confidence,  Lord  Creith," 
he  said.  "I  have  reason  to  believe  that  Marborne  was  murdered 
because  he  had  in  his  possession  a  document  which  Mr.  Hamon 
was  anxious  to  procure." 

"Good  God !"  said  Lord  Creith  aghast. 

"If  my  theory  is  right — and  the  document  was  obviously 
taken  from  the  body  of  Marborne — the  murderer  slipped 
whatever  he  found  into  an  addressed  envelope  which  had  al- 
ready been  supplied  to  him.  If  he  is  a  Moor,  he  would  have 
enough  intelligence  to  place  the  letter  in  the  post." 

"Do  you  know  what  you're  saying?"  asked  Lord  Creith 
breathlessly. 

"I'm  merely  giving  you  my  theory  in  confidence,  and  you're 
entitled  to  receive  it  in  confidence,  Lord  Creith,  since  you  are 
a  magistrate  in  this  county.  Is  it  possible  to  get  that  envelope  ?" 

Lord  Creith  thought  for  a  little  while. 

"Come  back  to  the  house  with  me,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know 
whether  I'm  standing  on  my  head  or  my  heels — by  the  time 
we  get  to  the  Hall  I  shall  be  more  certain  of  myself." 

Hamon  was  out.  He  had  followed  Joan  into  the  park,  to  her 
intense  annoyance. 

"I'm  blessed  if  I  know  what  to  do,"  said  his  lordship  help- 
lessly. "I  suppose  I  might  as  well  be  hanged  for  a  sheep  as  for 
a  lamb,  so  go  ahead  and  look  at  his  room." 


174  THE  BLACK 

Welling's  search  was  thorough  and  rapid ;  it  was  also  in  part 
fruitless.  There  was  a  writing-table  and  a  waste-paper  basket, 
but  the  basket  was  empty — had  been  emptied  in  the  early  morn- 
ing. 

"Ah,  there  it  is !"  said  Welling  suddenly  and  pointed  to  the 
large  open  fireplace. 

A  scrap  of  burnt  ash  had  blown  into  the  corner  and  he  picked 
it  up  tenderly. 

"This  is  the  envelope  and  something  else."  There  were  ashes 
which  were  not  of  paper. 

He  picked  up  a  small  portion  and  smelt. 

"That  isn't  paper,"  he  said.  Welling  looked  up  at  the  ceiling 
for  inspiration.  "No,  I  can't  place  it.  Will  you  give  me  an 
envelope  ?" 

He  collected  the  ashes  into  two  separate  envelopes  and  put 
them  in  his  pocket  and  got  downstairs  in  time  to  see  a  weary 
Joan  and  her  suitor  coming  up  the  broad  stairs  of  the  terrace 
before  the  house.  She  passed  Welling  with  a  little  nod  and  took 
her  father's  arm. 

"Daddy,  can  I  speak  to  you  ?"  she  said.  "Can  I  come  to  the 
library?" 

"Certainly,  my  love,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  closely.  "You're 
still  very  pale ;  are  you  sure  you  ought  to  be  out  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"I'm  quite  all  right,"  she  said.  "You  mustn't  worry.  I  wonder 
how  pale  you'll  be  when  I — when  I  tell  you  what  I  have  to  tell 
you?" 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  her. 

"And  I  wonder  how  disappointed  in  me  you'll  be?" 

Here  he  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  going  to  take  a  lot  to  make  me  disappointed  in  you, 
Joan,"  he  said,  and  put  his  arm  round  her  shoulder. 

She  tried  hard  not  to  cry,  but  the  strain  was  terrific.  Lord 
Creith  closed  the  door  and  led  her  to  a  recessed  window  seat. 

"Now,  Joan,"  he  said,  and  his  kindly  eyes  were  full  of  love 
and  sympathy,  "confess  up." 

Twice  she  tried  to  speak  and  failed,  and  then : 


THE  BANNOCKWAITE  BRIDE          175 

"Daddy,  I  married  Ferdie  Farringdon  when  I  was  at 
school,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

His  eyes  did  not  waver. 

"A  jolly  good  family,  the  Farringdons,  but  addicted  to 
drink,"  said  his  lordship,  and  she  fell,  sobbing,  into  her  arms. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 
The  Bannockwaite  Bride 

"Now  let's  hear  all  about  it." 

He  held  her  at  arm's  length. 

"And  look  up,  Joan.  There's  nothing  you'll  ever  do  that  is 
going  to  make  any  difference  to  me  or  my  love  for  you.  You're 
the  only  person  in  the  world  who  isn't  a  bother  and  who  couldn't 
be  a  bother." 

Presently  she  told  the  story. 

"Mr.  Bannockwaite  started  it.  It  was  a  society  called  the 
Midnight  Monks.  The  boys  at  Hulston  used  to  come  over  the 
wall  and  we  would  sit  around  in  the  convent  garden  and  eat 
things — pastry  and  pies,  a  sort  of  midnight  picnic.  It  will 
sound  strange  to  you  that  that  could  be  innocent,  but  it  was. 
All  those  queer  societies  of  his  started  that  way,  however  they 
developed.  We  were  the  Midnight  Monks,  and  my  dearest 
friend,  Ada  Lansing,  was  our  'prioress.'  Of  course,  the  sisters 
knew  nothing — the  sisters  of  the  convent  I  mean.  Poor  dears ! 
They'd  have  died  if  they  had  dreamt  of  such  goings-on !  And 
then  somebody  suggested  that,  in  order  that  the  two  branches 
of  the  society  should  be  everlastingly  united  there  should  be  a 
wedding  symbolical  of  our  union — that  and  nothing  more.  You 
think  all  this  is  madly  incredible,  but  things  like  that  happen, 
and  I  think  Bannockwaite  was  behind  the  suggestion.  He  had 
just  come  down  from  Oxford  and  had  built  the  little  chapel 
ia  the  woods.  He  never  lost  touch  with  any  of  the  societies  he 


176  THE  BLACK 

formed  and  he  was  very  much  interested  in  the  Monks,  which 
was  the  first  he  invented.  I  know  he  came  down  because  he 
presided  at  one  of  our  summer  night  feasts.  We  drew  lots  as 
to  who  should  be  the  bride " 

"And  the  choice  fell  on  you  ?"  said  Lord  Creith  gently. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  it  fell  upon  Ada,  and  she  was  enthusiastic — terribly 
enthusiastic  until  the  day  of  the  wedding.  It  was  a  holiday  and 
the  seniors  were  allowed  out  in  twos.  Mr.  Bannockwaite  ar- 
ranged everything.  The  man  was  to  dress  like  a  monk,  with  his 
face  cowled,  and  the  girl  was  to  be  heavily  veiled.  Nobody  was 
to  know  the  other.  We  weren't  even  supposed  to  know  who 
had  drawn  the  lots.  Can  you  imagine  anything  more  mad  ?  Mr. 
Bannockwaite  was  to  perform  the  ceremony.  We  went  to  this 
dear  little  chapel  in  the  woods  near  Ascot,  and  in  the  vestry 
poor  Ada  broke  down.  I  think  it  was  then  that  I  first  realised 
how  terribly  serious  it  was.  I  won't  make  a  long  story  of  it, 
Daddy — I  took  Ada's  place." 

"Then  you  never  saw  your  husband's  face  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"Yes,  the  cowl  fell  back  and  I  saw  him,  and  when  the  cere- 
mony was  over  and  I  signed  the  register,  I  saw  his  name.  I  don't 
think  he  saw  mine,  unless  he  has  been  back  since." 

"And  you  never  saw  him  again  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  that  was  the  plan.  I  never  saw  him  until — until  he 
came  here.  I  heard  he  was  dead.  It  seems  a  terribly  wicked 
thing  to  say,  but  I  was  almost  glad  when  poor  Ada  died." 

Lord  Creith  filled  his  pipe  with  a  hand  that  shook. 

"It  was  damnable  of  Bannockwaite,  and  even  his  death 
doesn't  absolve  him.  It  might  have  been  worse."  He  put  his  arm 
around  her  and  squeezed  her  gently.  "And  it  is  hard  on  you, 
Joan,  but  ft  can  be  remedied." 

"It  is  harder — than  you  think,"  she  said. 

The  Lord  of  Creith  was  a  very  human  man,  and  his  knowk 
edge  of  humanity  did  not  stop  short  at  guessing. 

"What  is  wrong,  girlie  ?"  he  asked.  "Do  you  love  somebody 
else?" 


THE  BANNOCKWAITE  BRIDE          177 

She  nodded. 

"That  certainly  is  unfortunate."  The  old  twinkle  had  come 
back  to  his  eyes,  and  he  pulled  her  up  to  her  feet.  "Come  along 
and  have  tea,"  he  said.  "Feel  better  ?" 

She  kissed  him.  The  Creiths  were  not  demonstrative,  and 
to  be  kissed  by  his  daughter  was  generally  a  source  of  embar- 
rassment to  his  lordship.  On  this  particular  occasion  he  felt 
like  crying. 

Joan  went  up  to  her  room,  removed  the  traces  of  tears  from 
her  face,  and  his  lordship  strolled  into  the  library.  Hamon  was 
there  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  his  face  black  as  a  thundercloud. 

"My  man  tells  me  that  you  took  the  police  up  to  my  room — 
why?" 

"Because  I  am  the  principal  magistrate  in  this  part  of  the 
world,  and  I  cannot  refuse  a  request  when  it  is  made  to  me  by 
a  responsible  officer,"  said  Lord  Creith  quietly. 

"I  suppose  you  remember  occasionally  that  this  house  is 
mine  ?" 

"I  never  forget  it,"  said  the  earl,  "but  if  this  county  was 
yours  it  would  not  make  the  slightest  difference  to  me,  Hamon. 
If  you  were  under  suspicion  of  murder " 

"Under  suspicion?  What  do  you  mean?  Have  you  taken  up 
that  crazy  story?  What  did  the  police  want?  Why  did  they 
search  my  room  ?  What  did  they  expect  to  find  ?" 

He  fired  off  the  questions  in  rapid  succession. 

"They  expected  to  find  a  burnt  envelope,"  said  Lord  Creith 
wearily,  and  he  got  a  certain  malicious  satisfaction  when  he 
saw  his  guest  start.  "It  was  a  letter  that  was  delivered  to  you, 
posted  at  Little  Lexham  this  morning." 

"They  didn't  find  it,"  said  the  other  harshly. 

"They  found  the  ashes  thereof,"  said  Lord  Creith,  and  then : 
"Do  you  mind  switching  off  wilful  murder?  I  find  I'm  not  so 
fascinated  by  crime  as  I  used  to  be.  And,  by  the  way,  Hamon, 
what  time  shall  I  order  your  chauffeur?" 

"Why  order  my  chauffeur  at  all  ?" 

"Because  you're  going  back  to  town  to-night,"  said  his  lord- 
ship, almost  jauntily.  "You're  constantly  reminding  me  that 
this  house  is  yours.  Let  me  remind  you  that  I  am  a  tenant  for 


i7»  THE  BLACK 

Kfe,  and  that  until  my  certain-to-be-regretted  demise  I  have  all 
the  authority,  legal  and  moral,  to  order  you  out  of  my  house, 
which  I  do  at  this  moment  and  in  the  plainest  terms  I  can  com- 
mand!" 

"This  is  a  remarkable  action  on  your  part,  Lord  Creith,"  said 
the  visitor  in  a  milder  tone. 

"I  don't  know  that  it  is  remarkable,  but  it  is  certainly  neces- 
sary," said  his  lordship,  and,  without  any  further  conversation 
with  his  visitor,  he  ordered  the  car  to  be  ready  in  an  hour. 

His  valet  brought  the  news  to  Ralph  Hamon. 

"We're  not  returning  to  London.  Go  down  to  the  Red  Lion 
and  book  me  a  bedroom  and  a  sitting-room,"  he  said. 

This  development  had  considerably  altered  his  plans.  Mar- 
borne's  death  and  the  safe  recovery  of  the  thing  he  had  risked 
so  much  to  hold,  did  not  promise  complete  safety ;  and  now 
that  he  was  under  suspicion,  there  was  a  double  reason  why  he 
should  not  leave  Creith  until  his  mission  was  accomplished, 
and  until  he  had  made  sure  that  disaster  did  not  come  from  the 
least  considered  source. 

Besides,  he  had  told  Ahmet  to  hurt  but  not  to  kill !  It  was  no 
fault  of  his  if  the  fool  had  exceeded  his  instructions.  He  had 
given  similar  orders  to  a  certain  AH  Hassan,  with  as  unhappy 
consequences ;  but  Ali  Hassan  was  a  smoker  of  hashish  and  an 
undependable  man,  or  he  might  have  carried  out  his  orders  to 
the  letter. 

Lord  Creith  heard  that  his  guest  had  taken  up  his  quarters 
at  the  Red  Lion  without  feeling  any  sense  of  uneasiness. 

"I  don't  know  what  the  Red  Lion  is  like  nowadays,"  he  said 
to  his  daughter.  "In  the  days  of  my  youth  it  was  notoriously 
dirty  and  full  of  fleas,  and  I  trust  it  has  not  changed.  The  air 
is  cleaner  now,  my  duck.  This  Hamon  is  a  very  nasty  fellow." 

And  she  was  inclined  to  agree.  She  had  not  seen  Jim  since 
the  meeting  on  the  hill,  and  she  purposely  avoided  contact  with 
him.  What  would  he  think  of  her?  How  was  he  feeling?  Was 
he  hurt  ?  She  hoped  most  fervently  that  he  was. 

"Do  you  like  Americans,  Father  ?" 

"I  like  some  of  them,  and  I  detest  some  of  them,"  said  his 
lordship,  without  raising  his  eyes  from  the  newspaper  he 


THE  LETTER  179 

reading ;  "but  that  remark  equally  applies  to  almost  any  nation. 
Why?"  He  looked  over  the  top  of  the  paper.  "You're  thinking 
of  Morlake?"  he  said. 

"I  was,"  she  confessed. 

"A  very  nice  fellow.  I  never  knew  that  a  desperado  could  be 
so  nice.  He  is  a  gentleman,  too,"  he  added,  and  returned  to  his 
newspaper. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

The  Letter 

THE  people  of  Creith  wondered  to  see  their  lord's  principal 
guest,  and,  if  rumour  did  not  lie,  the  future  owner  of  the 
estate,  moving  his  lodgings  to  the  village  inn;  but  Hamon 
had  got  to  the  point  where  he  did  not  care  what  they  thought. 
A  week  ago,  such  an  affront  to  his  dignity  would  have  driven 
him  desperate ;  but  now  something  else  was  at  stake.  Unex- 
pectedly his  world  was  rocking  dangerously. 

He  wired  Lydia  to  meet  him  in  London  on  the  morrow,  and, 
waiting  until  it  was  dark,  he  went  out  from  his  lodgings  and 
bent  his  steps  to  the  gardener's  cottage.  Mrs.  Cornford  opened 
the  door  to  him,  and  at  first  she  did  not  recognise  him  in  the 
darkness. 

"I  want  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Cornford,"  he  said. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"Ralph  Hamon." 

She  did  not  move,  standing  squarely  in  the  narrow  passage, 
and  then,  opening  the  door  wider : 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  and  followed  him  into  the  little  parlour. 

"You  haven't  changed  very  much,  Mrs.  Cornford,"  he  said, 
at  a  loss  how  to  approach  the  subject  which  had  brought  him 
there. 

She  made  no  reply.  It  was  an  awkward  situation,  and  agaip 
he  sought  for  an  opening. 


i8o  THE  BLACK 

"I  suppose  you're  still  feeling  sore  with  me  ?" 

"No,"  she  replied  quietly,  and  then :  "Won't  you  sit  down, 
Mr.  Hamon?" 

"There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  feel  sore.  I  did  every- 
thing  I  could  for  Johnny." 

"Where  is  he?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know — dead,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  and  at  the  brutal- 
ity of  his  words  she  winced  a  little. 

"I  think  he  is  dead  too,"  she  breathed,  nodding  slowly.  "You 
were  equally  sure  that  he  was  alive  twelve  years  ago,"  she  said 
quietly.  "What  happened  to  his  money,  Mr.  Hamon  ?" 

"He  lost  it :  I  told  you  that  before,"  said  Hamon  impatiently. 

Her  eyes  never  left  him. 

"He  wrote  to  me  from  Morocco,  saying  that  he  had  seen  the 
mine,  and  how  splendid  a  property  it  was,  and  then  a  month 
later  he  wrote  from  London,  saying  that  he  was  fixing  every- 
thing with  you,  and  I  never  heard  from  him  again." 

"He  disappeared :  that  is  all  I  know,"  said  Hamon.  "He  was 
coming  to  my  office  to  complete  the  purchase  of  shares,  and  he 
didn't  turn  up.  I  wired  you,  asking  where  he  was,  immediately." 

His  tone  was  a  defiance. 

"I  only  know  that  he  drew  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  from 
the  bank,  and  that  neither  he  nor  the  money  was  seen  again," 
she  said  steadily.  "I  am  not  pretending,  Mr.  Hamon,  that  my 
husband  and  I  were  very  happy.  He  was  of  too  erratic  a  dispo- 
sition, had  too  many  friends  of  both  sexes  that  I  could  not 
possibly  approve ;  he  was  a  drunkard  too,  but  he  was  in  some 
respects  a  good  man.  He  would  not  have  left  me  a  beggar  as  he 
did." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Why  didn't  you  go  to  the  police?"  he  asked  blandly.  "If 
you  had  any  doubts  about  me " 

She  looked  down  upon  him,  a  contemptuous  smile  upon  her 
tired  face. 

"You  begged  me  not  to  go  to  the  police,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice.  "I  see  now  what  a  fool  I  was.  You  begged  me,  for  my 
own  sake  and  for  the  sake  of  my  husband's  people,  not  to  ad- 
vertise his  absence." 


THE  LETTER  181 

"Didn't  I  put  advertisements  in  every  newspaper  ?  Didn't  I 
send  agents  to  Monte  Carlo,  to  Aix,  to  Deauville — to  every 
gambling  place  where  he  might  be  ?"  he  demanded  with  simu- 
lated indignation.  "Really,  Mrs.  Cornford,  I  don't  think  you're 
treating  me  quite  fairly." 

It  was  useless  to  reply  to  him.  He  had  put  her  off  her  search 
until  the  cleverest  detective  agencies  in  England  found  it  im- 
possible to  pick  up  a  clue,  for  she  had  delayed  independent 
action  until  that  independent  action  was  futile.  One  day  she 
had  been  a  rich  woman  with  a  home  and  an  independent  in- 
come. The  next,  she  was  beggared. 

If  John  Cornford  had  been  the  ordinary  type  of  business 
man,  there  would  have  been  no  question  as  to  her  action.  She 
would  have  notified  the  police  immediately  of  his  disappear- 
ance. But  Johnny  Cornford,  prince  of  good  fellows  to  all  but 
his  own,  had  a  habit  of  making  these  mysterious  disappear- 
ances. She  had  learnt,  in  the  course  of  her  life,  the  discretion 
of  silence. 

"Why  have  you  come  ?"  she  asked. 

"Because  I  wanted  to  settle  up  this  matter  of  Johnny.  I  feel 
responsible,  to  the  extent  that  I  brought  him  to  London.  Will 
you  show  me  the  letter  he  sent  you  from  town  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  wanted  to  see  that  before,  Mr.  Hamon.  It  is  the  only 
evidence  I  have  that  he  had  returned  to  England  at  all.  Some 
time  ago,  a  man  asked  you  what  had  become  of  my  husband, 
and  you  said  that  he  had  been  lost  in  the  desert  in  Morocco. 
Hundreds  of  people  who  knew  him  are  under  the  impression 
that  he  died  there." 

"What  is  that  ?"  he  asked  suddenly.  There  was  a  low  wail  of 
sound. 

"I  have  a  young  man  staying  with  me  who  is  very  ill,"  she 
said,  and  hurried  from  the  room. 

He  looked  round  the  apartment.  Where  would  a  woman  of 
that  sort  keep  her  letters?  Not  in  an  accessible  dining-room, 
he  thought.  Somewhere  in  the  bedroom,  probably.  The  door 
connecting  the  rooms  was  open,  and  he  looked  in.  A  candle  was 


i82  THE  BLACK 

burning  on  the  table.  He  heard  her  footsteps  and  stepped  back 
quickly  to  his  seat. 

"Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do,  Mrs.  Cornford.  If 
you  will  let  me  see  that  letter,  I  will  tell  you  the  whole  truth 
about  Johnny's  death." 

"He  is  dead,  then  ?"  she  asked  huskily,  and  he  noddea. 

"He  has  been  dead  ten  years." 

She  seemed  to  be  struggling  with  herself.  Presently  she  got 
up,  went  to  the  bedroom  and  closed  the  door  behind  hef  ,  re- 
turning in  a  few  minutes  with  a  small  ebony  box,  which  she 
opened. 

"Here  is  the  letter,"  she  said.  "You  may  read  it." 

Yes,  it  was  blue!  He  knew  that  k  was  written  on  Critton 
Hotel  notepaper  —  the  Critton  note  was  blue. 

He  read  the  scrawled  writing.  It  was  dated  from  a  London 
hotel. 


I  am  seeing  Ralph  Hamon  to-day,  and  we  are  fixing  the 
chase  of  the  shares.  The  only  thing  about  which  I  ant  not  cer- 
tain —  and  this  I  must  discover-~is  whether  the  property  I  saw 
was  Hamon'  s  mine,  or  a  very  prosperous  concern  which  has  no 
connection  whatever  with  Ralph's  company.  Not  that  I  think  he 
would  deceive  me. 

She  watched  him  intently,  ready  to  snatch  at  the  letter  if 
he  attempted  to  pocket  it,  but  he  handed  it  back  to  her,  and  she 
replaced  it  in  the  box  and  closed  the  lid.  She  was  about  to  speak 
when  again  there  came  that  moaning  sound  from  the  next 
room.  She  hesitated  a  moment,  locked  the  little  ebony  box  and 
carried  it  back  to  her  bedroom,  turning  the  key  on  the  bedroom 
door  after  her  when  she  came  out.  He  watched  with  a  certain 
amount  of  amusement,  and  when  she  went  into  the  invalid's 
room  he  followed  her. 

"Who  is  this  man?"  he  asked,  regarding  curiously  the  gaunt 
face  that  lay  on  the  pillows. 

"He  is  my  boarder,"  she  said,  troubled.  "I'm  afraid  he  is 
worse  to-night  * 


THE  LETTER  183 

Farringdon  rose  on  his  elbow  and  tried  to  get  out  of  bed. 
It  took  all  her  strength  to  push  him  back.  Again  he  tried  to 
rise,  and  it  took  their  united  efforts  to  force  him  back. 

"Will  you  stay  here  whilst  I  get  the  doctor  ?"  she  asked. 

Ralph  Hamon  had  no  desire  to  act  as  nurse  to  a  half -crazy 
patient,  but  in  all  the  circumstances  he  thought  it  would  be  ad- 
visable. He  pulled  up  a  chair  and  watched  the  poor  wretch 
who  tossed  from  side  to  side,  muttering  and  laughing  in  his  de- 
lirium. Presently  the  sick  man's  voice  grew  clear. 

"Joan — married?  Yes,  her  father  is  Lord  somebody  or 
other,"  said  the  patient.  "I  never  knew.  You  see,  they  found 
out  that  afternoon — the  house-master  heard  me  talking  to  Ban- 
nockwaite.  We  were  married  at  the  little  church  in  the  wood.  I 
didn't  want  to  marry,  but  the  gang  insisted.  We  drew  lots.  It 
was  Bannockwaite's  fault.  He  was  never  quite  normal.  You 
know  Bannockwaite  ?  He  was  ordained  that  year,  and  he 
thought  it  was  a  great  joke.  They  chucked  him  out  of  the 
Church  for  something  queer  that  happened,  but  I  was  abroad 
then  and  don't  quite  know  what  it  was  all  about.  Anyway,  he 
was  killed  in  the  war.  He  ought  never  to  have  been  a  parson. 
Bannockwaite,  I  mean.  He  started  the  society,  the  Midnight 
Monks,  when  he  was  a  kid  at  Hulston— that's  my  school.  The 
girls  at  the  convent  next  door  used  to  sneak  over  the  wall  and 
we  ate  candies.  .  .  .  Joan,  that  was  her  name — Joan.  Her 
father  was  Lord  somebody  and  lived  in  Sussex.  Bannockwaite 
told  me  that  she  was  a  peeress.  I  didn't  want  her.  .  .  .  Ban 
called  her  Ada  something  when  we  were  married,  but  her  name 
was  Joan  .  .  ." 

Hamon  listened,  electrified.  Joan !  It  must  be  Joan  Carston. 
He  bent  over  the  sick  man  and  asked  eagerly : 

"Where  were  you  married?" 

For  a  time  the  invalid  said  something  that  he  could  not  catch. 

"Where?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"Little  church  in  a  wood  at  Ascot,"  murmured  Farringdon. 
"It  is  in  the  register." 

Hamon  knew  the  reputation  of  Bannockwaite,  and  guessed 
the  rest  of  the  story.  Joan  was  married !  He  pursed  his  lips  at 


i84  THE  BLACK 

the  thought.  It  was  at  once  a  lever  and  a  barrier.  He  heard  the 
feet  of  Mrs.  Cornford  and  the  doctor,  and  drew  back  to  the 
doorway.  It  was  easy  to  take  his  farewells  now,  and,  with  a 
nod  to  the  woman  which  she  hardly  saw,  he  went  back  to  the 
hotel. 

It  was  half-an-hour  before  the  doctor  left,  and,  in  spite  of 
the  feverish  condition  of  the  patient,  he  reported  a  distinct  im- 
p'ovement. 

'Til  have  a  nurse  in  from  the  County  Hospital  to-night,  Mrs. 
Cornford,"  he  said,  and  she  thanked  him  gratefully.  She  had 
had  little  sleep  for  forty-eight  hours. 

Why  had  Ralph  Hamon  called,  she  asked  herself  ?  And  what 
could  be  the  object  of  his  wanting  to  see  that  letter?  He  had 
asked  years  before,  but  she  had  refused  him  access,  feeling,  in 
some  way,  that  its  possession  retained  for  her  a  last  grasp  on 
the  fortune  which  had  slipped  through  her  hands. 

She  had  taken  a  great  risk  in  letting  him  touch  it,  and  she  was 
thankful  that  there  were  no  worse  consequences  to  her  folly. 
Before  she  went  to  bed  that  night  she  opened  the  drawer  of 
her  bureau,  took  out  the  box  and  unlocked  it.  There  was  the 
faded  blue  letter  on  the  top.  She  was  closing  the  lid  down  when 
it  occurred  to  her  to  read  this  last  message  from  her  husband, 
and  she  opened  the  sheet.  It  was  blank. 

Ralph  Hamon  knew  the  colour  of  the  letter,  knew  its  shape 
and  size.  It  had  been  easy  to  ring  the  changes. 

What  should  she  do  ?  The  hour  was  late.  Should  she  go  to 
the  hall  and  invoke  Lord  Creith's  assistance?  She  had  only 
seen  him  once,  and  she  was  already  in  his  debt.  And  then  her 
mind  turned  to  Jim — that  quiet,  capable  man,  and,  putting  on 
her  hat  and  coat,  she  hurried  to  Wold  House. 

There  are  certain  advantages  and  some  disadvantages  to  an 
hotel.  The  disadvantage,  from  Ralph  Hamon's  point  of  view, 
was  its  accessibility  to  the  outside  public.  He  was  sitting  before 
a  fire  in  his  bedroom,  for  the  night  was  chilly,  smoking  his  last 
cigar,  and  ruminating  upon  the  queerness  of  this  latest  devel- 
opment, when,  without  so  much  as  a  knock,  the  door  opened 
and  Jim  Morlake  walked  in. 

"I've  got  two  pieces  of  news  for  you,  Hamon.  The  first  is 


A  YACHTING  TRIP  185 

that  your  Moor  is  caught.  The  second  is  that  you're  going  to 
give  me  a  letter  that  you  stole  from  Mrs.  Cornford,  and  you're 
going  to  give  it  to  me  very,  very  quickly." 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 
A  Yachting  Trip 

RALPH  HAMON  rose  to  his  feet,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his 
jaw  out-thrust. 

"My  Moor,  as  you  call  him,  doesn't  interest,  and  this  yarn 
about  a  stolen  letter  doesn't  even  amuse  me." 

"I  didn't  come  here  at  this  hour  of  the  night  to  make  you 
laugh,"  said  Jim.  "I  want  that  letter." 

He  took  two  strides  across  the  room,  and  then,  with  an  oath, 
Hamon  sprang  between  him  and  the  dressing-table. 

"It's  there,  is  it  ?  Get  out  of  my  way !" 

He  brushed  the  man  aside  as  though  he  were  a  child,  and 
pulled  open  the  drawer.  On  the  top  was  a  pocket-book,  and  this 
he  took  out. 

"You  thief !"  howled  Hamon,  and  leapt  at  him. 

Again  he  reeled  back  from  the  outstretched  hand. 

"Here  is  the  letter,"  said  Jim.  "Now,  if 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence.  Grinning  with  rage,  Hamon 
saw  him  make  a  rapid  search  of  the  pocket-book,  but  the  thing 
he  sought  was  not  there. 

"Found  it?"  he  said  exultantly. 

"I've  found  the  letter — that  was  enough,"  said  Jim,  as  he 
slipped  it  into  his  pocket  and  dropped  the  case  back  into  the 
drawer.  "You  can  call  the  police  if  you  like.  I  don't  mind — I'm 
used  to  it.  There's  a  fine  charge  for  you — breaking  and  enter- 
ing!" 

Hamon  said  nothing. 

"If  your  Moor  talks,  there  will  be  some  sad  hearts  on  Wall 


i86  THE  BLACK 

Street — nothing  depreciates  the  stock  of  a  Corporation  more 
than  the  hanging  of  its  president !" 

Still  Hamon  made  no  reply.  He  flung  open  the  window,  and, 
leaning  out,  watched  the  tall  man  till  he  disappeared  into  the 
night,  and  then  he  went  back  to  his  interrupted  reflections,  but 
now  they  were  on  another  plane.  And  invariably  his  thoughts 
came  back  to  the  starting  point,  which  was  Joan  Carston — the 
married  Joan.  Joan,  linked  in  some  indefinable  way  with  Jim 
Morlake.  Lydia  had  told  him  they  were  engaged,  and  he  had 
laughed  at  the  idea.  Was  he  the  real  barrier?  If  he  could  be 
sure  .  .  .  ! 

He  left  the  next  morning  for  London  and  went  to  Victoria 
to  meet  Lydia  in  the  afternoon.  She  had  read  of  the  murder  of 
Marborne  in  the  Paris  newspapers,  and  was  a  little  frightened 
and  nervous — he  was  amazed  to  note  how  the  news  had  affected 
her. 

"How  did  it  happen,  Ralph?"  she  asked  in  the  car  on  the 
way  home.  "How  dreadful !  Was  he  really  killed  by  a  Moor  ? 
You  know  nothing  about  it,  do  you,  Ralph  ?"  She  gripped  his 
hand  in  both  of  hers  and  peered  into  his  face.  "You  didn't,  did 
you  ?  It  would  be  horrible  if  I  thought  otherwise.  Of  course  you 
didn't!" 

"You're  getting  hysterical,  Lydia.  Of  course  I  know  no  more 
about  this  poor  devil's  death  than  you.  It  was  a  great  shock  to 
me.  I  don't  pretend  I  liked  the  man,  and  I  liked  him  less  after 
he  got  so  fresh  with  you." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Ralph  ?" 

"I'm  going  to  get  away  out  of  this  country,"  he  said.  "I'm 
sick  of  it." 

"To  Morocco?" 

He  saw  the  corners  of  her  mouth  droop. 

"Yes,  to  Morocco.  We'll  go  there  for  Christmas:  it  is  the 
best  time  of  the  year." 

"Not  for  good?" 

"Of  course  not.  If  you're  bored  you  can  run  over  to  Gibral- 
tar or  Algeciras.  You  needn't  stay  in  the  place,"  he  soothed  her. 
"Maybe  I  won't  go  there  at  all.  I  ought  to  go  to  New  York  to 
finish  off  a  business  deal.  You  were  telling  me  last  week,  when 


A  YACHTING  TRIP  187 

you  were  over  here,  about  a  swell  French  friend  of  yours  who 
was  hiring  a  yacht  to  take  some  people  to  the  South  Sea  Islands. 
It  fell  through,  didn't  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  wonderingly. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  go  along  and  charter  the  yacht  for 
the  winter  ?" 

"Why  not  go  by  the  usual  route,  Ralph  ?  It  is  more  comforta- 
ble," she  said. 

"I  prefer  the  sea." 

She  did  not  answer  him,  knowing  that  he  was  a  bad  sailor. 

"Will  you  see  what  you  can  do  in  this  matter  ?"  he  asked  im- 
patiently. 

"Yes,  Ralph.  Count  Lagune  is  in  London  at  this  moment,  I 
think.  It  could  easily  be  arranged." 

She  came  to  him  in  the  evening  with  a  story  of  accomplish- 
ment. She  had  chartered  the  yacht  provisionally,  and  the  Count 
had  telegraphed  to  Cherbourg  to  have  the  vessel  sent  to  South- 
ampton. She  found  her  brother  in  a  jubilant  mood,  for  the 
Moor  had  escaped  from  the  little  Sussex  lockup  to  which  he 
had  been  taken,  and  had  half-killed  a  policeman  in  the  process. 

"Your  Moor  will  talk !"  he  mimicked  Jim.  "Let  him.  I  guess 
he's  talking !" 

She  was  staring  at  him,  wide-eyed  with  horror. 

"Ralph!"  she  gasped.  "It  isn't  true — you  knew  nothing 
about  this  ?" 

"Of  course  I  didn't,  you  fool!"  he  said  roughly.  "They 
thought  I  did.  That  swine  Morlake  practically  accused  me — > 
said  the  man  was  in  my  service,  which  was  a  lie.  I've  never 
heard  of  him." 

That  night  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Earl  of  Creith,  and  it  was 
both  conciliatory  and  logical. 

"I  must  say,"  said  his  lordship,  wagging  his  head,  "this  fel- 
low isn't  as  bad  as  he  looks.  He  has  written  a  most  charming 
letter,  and  I'm  rather  sorry  I  was  such  a  pig." 

"The  only  man  you  could  talk  about  so  offensively  is  Mr. 
Hamon,"  said  the  girl  with  a  smile. 

She  took  the  letter  from  her  father's  hand  and  read  it. 


i88  THE  BLACK 

I'm  afraid  I  have  been  rather  a  boor  these  last  few  days  [it 
ran]  but  so  many  things  have  happened  to  get  on  my  nerves  and 
I  know  I  have  not  been  quite  normal.  I  hope  you  will  not  think 
too  badly  of  me,  and  that  in  a  year  or  two's  time  we  shall  both 
be  amused  at  the  absurd  suggestion  that  I  was  in  any  way  re- 
sponsible for  poor  Marborne's  death.  I  have  been  called  unex- 
pectedly to  America,  which  has  changed  my  plans  considerably, 
for  I  had  contemplated  a  yachting  cruise  in  the  Mediterranean 
and  I  find  myself  with  a  yacht  on  my  hands.  I  wonder  if  I  can 
persuade  you  to  take  the  trip?  You  would  be  quite  alone,  and  I 
am  sure  you  would  have  an  enjoyable  time.  I  only  regret  that 
neither  myself  nor  my  sister  can  be  with  you.  The  yacht  is  the 
"L'Esperance,"  and  will  be  at  Southampton  on  Tuesday.  May 
I  beg  of  you,  as  a  very  great  favour,  to  use  the  yacht  as  if  she 
were  yours,  and  save  me  from  what,  to  a  financier,  is  a  misery 
— a  sense  of  having  wasted  my  money. 

"H'm !"  mused  the  Earl.  "Of  course,  if  he'd  been  going  on  a 
trip,  I  should  have  written  him  a  very  polite  letter,  telling  him 
that  in  no  circumstances  should  I  share  the  voyage  with  him. 
But  this  is  different,  don't  you  think,  my  love  ?" 

Again  he  shook  his  head  at  the  letter. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  that  the  trip  wouldn't  be  good  for  us  all," 
he  said. 

Knowing  how  strong  were  her  prejudices  against  Hamon,  he 
expected  some  opposition.  He  was  therefore  agreeably  sur- 
prised when  she  fell  in  with  his  view.  Creith  was  on  her  nerves 
too — Creith  and  the  sick  man  at  Mrs.  Cornford's,  and  Jim, 
whom  she  never  saw  and  ached  to  see. 

The  first  news  of  the  intended  trip  came,  as  usual,  ex  Binger, 
and  the  divers  junctions  of  intelligence  that  met  in  the  tap-room 
of  the  Red  Lion. 

"It  appears  that  this  yacht — it  is  hon  loan  to  Hamon." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'on  loan' — has  it  been  chartered  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.  If  my  information  is  haccurate." 

"Which  in  all  likelihood  it  isn't — where  are  they  going?" 

"To  the  Mediterranean,  sir.  Mr.  Hamon  and  sister  are  hoff 
to  America.  Which  they  are  welcome  to." 


THE  CHAPEL  IN  THE  WOOD     189 

"To  the  Mediterranean?" 

Jim  looked  into  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  thought  fully. 
"That  means  .  .  .  When  do  they  go  ?" 
"On  Saturday,  sir." . 
"Indeed !"  said  Jim. 

For  the  Mediterranean  meant  Tangier,  and  Tangier  stood  in 
his  mind  for  Sadi  Hafiz  and  the  beautiful  hell  in  the  Rifi  Hills. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX 

The  Chapel  in  the  Wood 

THERE  is  a  little  chapel  which  stands  back  from  the  Bagskot 
Road.  The  beauty  of  its  outlines  is  hidden  by  the  jealous  trees. 
An  open  gateway  in  a  side  road  leads,  apparently,  into  the  cool 
depths  of  the  wood,  without  any  suggestion  that  anything  more 
solid  than  the  pines  or  more  beautiful  than  the  wild  violets  that 
grow  here  in  spring  is  concealed  there. 

Ralph  Hamon  left  his  car  on  the  Bagshot  Road  and  pro- 
ceeded afoot  to  his  investigations.  For  a  time  he  stood  looking 
at  the  graceful  lines  of  the  little  edifice,  though  in  his  mind 
there  was  no  thought  of  its  aesthetic  beauty  or  the  loveliness  of 
its  surroundings.  He  only  wondered  who  could  have  been  such 
a  fool  as  to  build  a  church  miles  from  the  nearest  village.  He 
also  speculated  as  to  what  the  collections  were,  and  what  it  cost 
to  build  the  chapel,  and  who  was  the  lunatic  who  had  endowed 
such  a  useless  structure. 

The  door  was  open :  he  went  into  the  tiny  porch  and  pushed 
gingerly  at  the  baize  door.  The  interior,  with  its  gorgeous 
stained-glass  windows  and  its  marble  altar,  looked  bigger  than 
it  actually  was.  A  man  was  sweeping  the  tessellated  floor,  and 
looked  round  as  he  heard  the  door  close. 

"Good-day  to  you,"  said  Ralph.  "Is  the  vicar  about?" 


igo  THE  BLACK 

The  cleaner  shook  his  head. 

"No,  sir,  there's  no  vicar  here.  The  curate  of  St.  Barnabas' 
generally  comes  over  to  take  the  service.  But  usually  we  open 
it  for  marriages — there  is  one  to-day." 

"Why  for  marriages  ?"  asked  Ralph,  surprised. 

"Because  it's  romantic,"  said  the  man  vaguely.  "You  know 
what  young  people  are — they  like  a  bit  of  romance  in  their  lives. 
It  was  built  for  a  marrying  church  by  a  rich  young  parson 
named — now,  what  was  his  name  ?" 

"Bannockwaite  ?"  suggested  Ralph. 

"That's  the  name."  The  verger  shook  his  head.  "He  was  a 
bad  lot,  according  to  what  I've  heard." 

It  was  a  marrying  church!  That  was  good  news.  There 
would  be  a  register.  He  asked  the  question. 

"Yes,  sir,  the  register  is  kept  here." 

He  looked  round  dubiously  toward  the  vestry  door. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I'm  supposed  to  show  it  to  you.  You 
have  to  pay  a  fee,  don't  you  ?" 

"I'll  pay  your  fee,  my  friend.  You  produce  your  register." 

He  followed  the  man  through  the  little  arched  doorway  into 
a  small  stone  room  furnished  with  a  table  and  a  few  chairs. 
His  fear  was  that  the  verger  would  not  have  either  the  authority 
for  or  the  opportunity  of  showing  him  the  book,  but  apparently 
there  was  no  difficulty  here,  for  the  man  unlocked  the  chest 
and  laid  a  heavy  volume  on  the  table. 

"What  date  would  it  be  ?" 

"It  would  be  five  or  six  years  ago,"  said  Hamon. 

"That's  as  long  as  the  church  has  been  built,"  said  the  verger 
doubtfully,  and  turned  back  to  the  first  page  to  verify  his  state- 
ment. 

And  the  first  entry  on  the  first  page  was  the  record  of  a  mar-r 
riage  between  Ferdinand  Charles  Farringdon  and  Joan  Mary 
Carston ! 

With  fingers  that  trembled  he  made  a  copy  of  the  entry, 
tipped  the  verger  lavishly,  and  hurried  out  into  the  open.  H^ 
saw  a  man  walking  unconcernedly  between  the  pines,  but,  in 
his  excitement,  scarcely  noticed,  let  alone  recognised  him. 

How  was  he  to  use  his  knowledge  to  the  best  advantage  * 


THE  CHAPEL  IN  THE  WOOD     191 

Should  he  go  to  the  girl,  tell  her  all  he  knew,  and  threaten  her 
with  exposure?  He  rejected  this  plan.  What  was  there  to  ex- 
pose ?  Still,  he  had  the  knowledge,  and  sooner  or  later  it  must  be 
of  value. 

He  went  back  to  town  in  a  more  cheerful  mood  than  he  had 
been  for  days.  Julius  Welling  watched  his  departure,  and 
would  have  followed  instantly,  but  he  was  anxious  to  know 
what  business  had  brought  the  financier  to  Ascot.  .  .  . 

Lydia  was  superintending  her  packing  when  her  brother  ar- 
rived, and  she  was  more  amiable  than  usual. 

"You're  back,  Ralph?"  she  said.  "I  wanted  to  see  you  about 
one  or  two  things.  You  can't  tell  how  glad  I  am  you've  decided 
to  go  to  America.  I've  always  wanted  to  see  the  United  States. 
You'll  go  to  Palm  Beach,  won't  you " 

"Let  us  get  this  thing  right  before  we  go  any  farther,"  said 
Hamon.  "We  are  not  going  to  America !" 

Her  face  fell. 

"We're  going  to  Morocco." 

"Morocco !"  she  gasped.  "But,  Ralph,  you've  made  the  reser- 
vations." 

He  sighed  wearily. 

"It  was  necessary  to  make  reservations,  because  I  don't  want 
anybody  to  know  what  my  plans  are." 

"But  you  have  loaned  the  yacht  to  Lord  Creith.  You  said 
you  hated  the  idea  of  a  sea  voyage " 

"We're  going  by  train — as  you  suggested,"  said  Hamon. 
"My  business  calls  me  there,  and  it  is  absolutely  necessary  that 
I  should  see  Sadi  before  Christmas." 

She  was  silent  and  resentful,  and  stood  biting  her  lip  and  re- 
garding him  from  under  her  lowered  brows. 

"I  don't  like  this,  Ralph,"  she  said.  "There  is  something 
wrong." 

"There  is  more  than  one  thing  wrong,  my  dear,"  he  said. 
"The  whole  universe  is  a  little  off  its  feet,  and  I  am  speaking 
more  especially  of  my  universe.  I'll  tell  you  this  plainly :  I  want 
Joan  Carston." 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"You  mean  you  want  to  marry  her  ?" 


IQ2  THE  BLACK 

"I  want  to  marry  her  if  it  is  possible,"  he  said  carefully. 
"There  are  certain  obstacles  in  the  way  for  the  moment,  but 
they  won't  remain  obstacles  very  long." 

"But  if  she  doesn't  like  you ?" 

"What  married  couple  ever  like  one  another?"  said  Ralph 
roughly.  "They  are  infatuated — in  love,  as  they  call  it.  But 
liking  is  a  matter  of  growth  and  a  matter  of  respect.  And  you 
can  make  a  woman  respect  you  in  half-a-dozen  ways.  The  first 
essential  to  respect  is  fear.  Puzzle  that  out,  my  girl." 

"Is  it  necessary  that  I  should  come  ?" 

"Very  necessary,"  he  said  promptly. 

She  took  a  cigarette  from  a  little  jewelled  case  and  lit  it, 
watching  him  keenly. 

"I  suppose  you'll  want  a  whole  lot  of  help  from  Sadi  Hafiz  ?" 
she  said  carelessly. 

"I  certainly  shall." 

"And  you  think  that  Sadi  will  be  more  amenable — if  I  am 
there?" 

His  surprise  did  not  deceive  her. 

"I  have  never  thought  of  it  in  that  light,"  he  said. 

"I  hate  the  place!"  She  stamped  her  foot  angrily.  "That 
beastly  old  house  and  dingy  garden,  and  those  wretched  women 
prying  at  me  from  behind  the  grilles " 

"It  is  a  lovely  house,"  he  interrupted  enthusiastically,  "and 
the  air  is  like  wine "  He  stopped  suddenly. 

"You're  thinking  of  another  house,"  she  said  quickly.  "Has 
he  another  ?" 

"I  believe  he  has,  somewhere  on  the  hills,"  he  answered 
shortly,  and  refused  to  be  drawn  any  further  on  the  subject. 

He  locked  himself  in  his  study  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and 
she  thought  he  was  working ;  imagined  him  turning  out  draw- 
ers, destroying  papers,  and  clearing  up  the  correspondence  that 
such  a  man  allowed  to  fall  into  arrears.  But,  in  truth,  Ralph 
Hamon  was  dreaming.  He  sprawled  in  an  easy  chair,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  vacancy,  conjuring  a  hundred  situations  in  which  he 
played  a  leading  and  a  flattering  part.  He  dreamt  Jim  Morlake 
into  prison  and  Joan  into  his  arms.  He  dreamt  great  financial 
coups  and  the  straightening  out  of  life's  tangle.  And  so  he 


THE  LOVER  193 

passed  from  romance  to  reality,  and  his  dreams  became  plans, 
just  as  Lady  Joan  Carston  became  Lady  Joan  Hamon. 

At  five  o'clock  he  unlocked  the  door  and  lounged  into  his 
sister's  room.  She  had  a  cup  of  tea,  a  novel  and  a  cigarette,  but 
she  also  had  found  occupation  for  her  thoughts,  and  the  book 
was  unread  and  the  cigarette  was  burning  itself  away  in  the 
jasper  tray. 

"You  look  pleased  with  yourself." 

"I  am,"  he  said,  his  eyes  shining,  "I  am !" 


CHAPTER   XL 

The  Lover 

"PLEASE,  sir,  there's  a  lady  to  see  you." 

Cleaver  spoke  in  hushed  tones,  and,  by  the  air  of  awestricken 
wonder,  Jim  gathered  somebody  unusual  had  called. 

"Who  is  the  lady?"  he  asked,  and  knew  before  the  man  re- 
plied. 

"Lady  Joan." 

Jim  jumped  up  from  his  chair. 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  her  in  ?"  he  said. 

"She  wouldn't  come  in,  sir.  She  is  on  the  lawn :  she  asked  if 
she  could  speak  to  you." 

He  hurried  out  into  the  garden.  Joan  was  standing  at  the 
river  bank,  her  hands  behind  her,  looking  down  into  the  water, 
and,  hearing  the  swish  of  his  shoes  on  the  grass,  she  turned. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,"  she  said.  "Shall  we  cross  the  river?  I 
am  on  my  way  to  the  house,  and  you  might  take  me  as  far  as  the 
coverts." 

They  walked  in  silence  until  they  were  beyond  the  inquisi- 
tive eyes  of  Cleaver. 

"I  left  you  rather  abruptly  on  No  Man's  Hill,"  she  said.  "1 
think  that  it  is  due  to  you  that  I  should  finish  my  story." 


i$>4  THE  BLACK 

And  then  she  told  him,  in  almost  identical  words,  the  story 
she  had  told  her  father  and  he  listened,  dum founded. 

"I  am  so  sick  of  it  all  and  I've  had  to  make  this  confession 
twice ;  once  to  my  father,  because — well  it  was  due  to  him,  and 
once  to  you  because " 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence  nor  did  he  press  her. 

"The  marriage  can  be  annulled,  of  course,"  he  said. 

She  nodded. 

"Father  said  that,  and  I  suppose  it  seems  very  simple  to  you. 
But  to  me  it  means  going  into  court  and  having  this  ghastly 
business  thrashed  out  point  by  point."  She  shivered.  "I  don't 
think  I  shall  ever  do  it,"  she  said.  "I'm  a  coward ;  did  you  know 
that?" 

"I  have  never  had  that  estimate  of  you,"  he  laughed.  "No, 
Joan.  I  don't  believe  that!  One  isn't  a  coward  because  one 
shirks  the  ugliness  of  life.  You're  going  away,  aren't  you?" 

She  nodded. 

"I  don't  want  to  make  the  trip,  but  I  think  it  will  be  good 
for  father.  The  winter  climate  here  doesn't  suit  him  and  it  will 
be  a  change  for  us  both.  I  thought  there  was  a  catch  in  it  some- 
vrhere,"  she  half  smiled,  "but  really  Mr.  Hamon  is  going  to 
America.  He  is  with  father  now,  taking  his  farewells." 

"And  that  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  I  have  the  privilege  of 
seeing  you  ?"  he  chuckled,  but  she  protested  vigorously. 

"No,  I  should  have  come  anyway.  I  had  to  tell  you  about — 
about  the  marriage.  And  do  you  know,  James,  I  have  a  feeling 
that  Hamon  knows." 

"How  could  he?" 

"He  was  at  the  house  one  night  when  Mr.  Farringdon  was 
unusually  violent.  It  was  the  night  Mrs.  Cornford  lost  her 
letter,  which  you  got  back  for  her.  And  she  said  that  Farring- 
don had  been  talking  about  the  church  in  the  wood  at  Ascot  all 
the  time.  A  man  of  Hamon's  shrewdness  would  jump  at  the 
truth." 

"Does  it  matter  ?"  asked  Jim  quietly  after  a  pause,  "whether 
he  knows  or  not  ?  How  is  Farringdon,  by  the  way  ?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"He  is  better.  It  is  wicked  of  me  not  to  be  thankful,  but, 


THE  LOVER  195 

Jim,  I  can't  be — I  shall  have  to  call  you  Jim,  I  suppose.  I  saw 
him  to-day ;  he  was  walking  in  the  plantation  at  the  back  of  the 
cottage." 

"Is  he  so  far  recovered  as  that?"  asked  Jim  in  surprise,  "but 
would  he  recognise  you?" 

She  nodded. 

"I  have  a  feeling  that  he  did,"  she  said.  "Yes,  he  has  recov- 
ered. The  doctor  told  Mrs.  Cornf  ord  that  these  cases  get  better 
with  surprising  rapidity.  I  didn't  know  he  wafe  in  the  wood.  I 
was  on  my  way  to  the  cottage  to  ask  after  him,  and  suddenly 
we  came  face  to  face  and  he  looked  at  me  very  oddly  as  I  passed. 
What  makes  me  think  he  knows  is  that  Mrs.  Cornford  told  me 
he  had  been  asking  who  was  Lady  Joan  and  what  rank  was  her 
father.  And  then  he  asked  how  far  it  was  to  Ascot." 

Her  voice  trembled  and  she  bit  her  lip  to  recover  her  self- 
possession. 

"He  may  be  guessing,"  she  said  after  a  while,  "but  even  that 
may  make  it  more  difficult  for  me.  What  am  I  to  do,  Jim  ?  What 
am  I  to  do?" 

He  had  to  hold  himself  in,  or  he  would  have  taken  her  into 
his  arms.  He  loved  her ;  he  had  not  realised  how  intensely  until 
that  moment.  To  Jim  Morlake  she  was  the  beginning  and  end 
of  existence  and  all  its  desirability.  He  would  have  changed  the 
plan  of  his  life,  and  abandoned  the  quest  that  had  occupied  ten 
years  of  his  life,  to  save  her  from  one  heart-ache. 

Looking  up,  she  dropped  her  eyes  again,  as  though  she  read 
in  his  face  something  of  the  burning  fire  that  was  consuming 
him.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulders  and  his  touch  was  a 
caress.  Slowly  they  paced  toward  the  wood,  and  instinctively 
she  leaned  more  and  more  upon  him,  until  his  arm  was  about 
her  and  her  cheek  brushed  the  home-spun  of  his  sleeve. 

Ralph  Hamon  had  said  good-bye  to  the  Earl  of  Creith  and 
was  searching  the  grounds  for  the  girl  when  he  saw  the  two  and 
stopped  dead.  Even  at  that  distance,  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  athletic  figure  and  the  clean-moulded  face  of  Jim  Morlake. 
Still  more  impossible  was  it  to  misunderstand  the  relationship 
of  these  two. 

They  disappeared  into  the  straggling  plantation  and  he  stood 


i96  THE  BLACK 

for  some  time  biting  his  nails,  his  heart  hot  with  impotent  rage. 
There  was  something  between  them,  after  all !  He  had  pooh- 
poohed  the  suggestion  when  Lydia  had  made  it,  but  here  was  a 
demonstration  beyond  all  doubt.  He  broke  into  a  run  down  the 
grassy  slope  toward  the  strip  of  wood,  not  knowing  what  he 
would  do,  or  what  he  would  say  when  he  saw  them.  All  he 
wanted  was  to  meet  them  face  to  face  and  release  upon  them 
the  fury  which  burnt  within  him. 

Blundering  across  the  grass-land,  he  reached  the  wood 
breathless.  He  stopped  to  listen,  heard  footsteps  and  went 
toward  the  sound.  Moving  forward  stealthily  from  tree  to  tree, 
he  saw  the  walker  and  stopped.  It  was  Farringdon,  the  man  he 
had  seen  at  Mrs.  Cornford's  cottage ! 

His  appearance  took  Hamon  by  surprise.  He  thought  the 
walker  was  bedridden.  The  man  came  nearer  and  Hamon  took 
cover  and  watched.  Farringdon  was  a  wild-looking  figure  with 
his  week's  growth  of  beard,  his  pale  face  and  his  untidy  dress. 
He  was  talking  to  himself  as  he  slouched  along,  and  Hamon 
strained  his  ears,  without  being  able  to  distinguish  what  he  was 
saying.  The  man  passed  and,  coming  from  his  hiding  place, 
the  watcher  followed  at  a  distance,  guessing  that  the  course  he 
was  taking  would  intercept  the  lovers. 

To  Jim  those  were  the  most  precious  moments  of  his  life. 
The  burden  of  life  had  slipped  from  him ;  all  other  causes  and 
ambitions  were  lost  in  his  new-found  happiness.  In  silence  they 
walked  into  the  wood,  oblivious  to  all  the  world  that  lay  outside 
their  hearts.  Presently  she  stopped  and  sat  down  on  a  fallen 
tree  trunk. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  asked,  and  he  knew  that  she  did 
not  refer  to  their  immediate  destination. 

"We're  going  to  happiness,  sooner  or  later,"  he  said,  as  he 
sat  by  her  side  and  drew  her  to  him.  "We  will  disentangle  all 
the  knots,  big  and  little,  and  straighten  out  all  the  paths,  how- 
ever crooked  and  uneven  they  may  be." 

She  smiled  and  lifted  her  lips  to  his.  And  then,  in  that  mo- 
ment of  pure  ecstasy,  Jim  heard  a  low,  chuckling  laugh,  and 
gently  putting  her  away  from  him,  turned. 


THE  LOVER  197 

"A  forest  idyll !  That's  a  fine  sight  for  a  husband — to  see  his 
wife  in  another  man's  arms !" 

Farringdon  stood  tensely  before  them,  his  arms  folded,  his 
dark  eyes  glistening  feverishly.  The  girl  sprang  up  with  a  cry 
of  distress  and  clutched  at  Jim  Morlake's  arm. 

"He  knows !"  she  whispered  in  terror. 

The  man's  keen  ears  heard  the  words. 

"He  knows  ...  !"  he  mocked.  "You  bet  he  knows!  So 
you're  my  Joan,  are  you?  If  I  hadn't  been  a  lazy  brute  I'd  have 
found  that  out  years  ago." 

He  took  off  his  hat  with  a  sweep. 

"Glad  to  met  you,  Mrs.  Farringdon !"  he  said.  "It  is  a  long 
time  since  you  and  I  were  joined  together  in  the  holy  bonds  of 
matrimony.  So  you're  my  Joan !  Well,  I've  dreamt  about  you 
for  all  these  years,  but  I  never  dreamt  anything  so  pretty.  Do 
you  know  this  .  .  ."  he  pointed  at  her  with  a  shaking  finger. 
"There  was  a  girl  I  could  have  married,  and  would  have  mar- 
ried if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  cursed  folly!  You've  been  a 
stumbling  block  in  my  road,  a  handicap  that  nothing  but  booze 
could  overcome !" 

He  took  a  step  toward  her  and  suddenly,  gripping  her, 
jerked  her  toward  him. 

"You're  coming  home,"  he  said,  and  laughed. 

In  another  instant  he  was  thrust  backward  and,  stumbling, 
fell.  Jim  stooped  to  pick  him  to  his  feet,  but  he  struck  the  hand 
aside,  and,  with  a  scream  of  rage,  sprang  at  the  tall  man. 

"You  dog !"  he  howled.  But  he  was  a  child  in  the  hands  that 
held  him. 

"You're  ill,  Farringdon,"  said  Jim  gently.  "I'm  sorry  if  I 
hurt  you." 

"Let  me  go !  Let  me  go !"  screamed  Ferdie  Farringdon.  "She 
is  my  wife.  I'm  going  to  tell  the  village  .  .  .  she  is  my  wife ! 
You're  coming  with  me,  Joan  Carston — do  you  hear !  You're 
my  wife  till  death  do  us  part.  And  you  can't  divorce  me  with- 
out bringing  him  into  it." 

He  wrenched  himself  from  Jim's  grip  and  staggered  back. 
He  was  breathing  painfully,  his  face,  distorted  with  rage,  was 
demoniacal. 


198  THE  BLACK 

"I've  got  something  to  live  for  now — you !  You  came  to  see 
me,  didn't  you  ?  And  he  came  too  .  .  .  you're  coming  again, 
Joan — alone !" 

And  then  he  spun  round  and,  running  like  a  person  de- 
mented, flew  down  the  woodland  path  and  was  lost  to  view.  Jim 
turned  to  the  girl.  She  was  trying  to  smile  at  him. 

"Oh,  Jim !" 

It  hurt  him  to  feel  the  quivering,  trembling  agony  of  her  soul 
as  he  held  her. 

"I'm  all  right  now,"  she  said  after  a  while.  "You'll  have  to 
see  me  home  part  of  the  way,  Jim.  What  am  I  to  do  ?  Thank 
God  we're  going  away  on  Saturday !" 

He  nodded. 

"And  I  was  regretting  it !"  he  said.  "The  man  has  been  at  the 
bottle  again,  or  else  he's  gone  mad." 

"Do  you  think  he  will  come  to  the  house  ?"  she  asked  fear- 
fully, and  then,  with  a  surprising  effort,  she  put  him  at  ami's 
length  and  smiled  through  her  unshed  tears.  "I  told  you  I  was 
a  coward  and  I  am.  Matrimony  doesn't  suit  me.  Jim,  I'm  be- 
ginning to  sympathise  with  wives  who  murder  their  husbands. 
That  is  a  terrible  thing  to  say,  isn't  it  ?  But  I  am !  He  won't 
come  up  to  the  Hall — I  don't  care  if  he  does,"  she  said,  with 
something  of  her  old  spirit.  "Father  knows.  Who  could  have 
told  him — Mr.  Farringdon,  I  mean?" 

"He  guessed,"  said  Jim  decisively,  "and  why  he  hadn't 
guessed  before,  I  don't  know.  Probably  it  was  the  accident 
which  brought  him  to  Creith,  and  the  opportunity  he  had  of 
seeing  you  and  hearing  your  name,  which  made  the  discovery 
possible." 

Conversation  was  difficult ;  they  were  each  too  full  of  their 
own  thoughts  to  find  speech  anything  but  an  effort.  But  when 
they  came  in  sight  of  Creith  House,  the  girl  asked  unexpect- 
edly 

"Jim,  what  were  you  before  you  were  a  burglar?" 

"Eh?"  he  replied,  startled.  "Before  I  was  a  burglar?  Oh,  I 
ttras  a  respectable  member  of  society." 

"But  what  were  you  ?  Were  you  in  the  Army  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 


A  PHOTOGRAPH  199 

"In  any  public  service  ?" 

"What  makes  you  ask  that  ?"  he  demanded,  looking  at  her  in 
amazement. 

"I  don't  know — I  guessed." 

"I  was  in  the  diplomatic  service  for  a  while — which  doesn't 
mean  that  I  was  an  ambassador  or  a  consul.  I  was  a  sort  of 
hanger-on  to  embassies  and  ministries  .  .  ." 

"In  Morocco  ?"  she  asked  when  he  did  not  go  on. 

"In  Morocco  and  Turkey  and  other  Asiatic  countries.  I  gave 
it  up  because — well,  because  I  had  sufficient  money  and  be- 
cause I  found  a  new  avenue  to  adventure." 

She  nodded. 

"I  thought  it  was  something  like  that,"  she  said.  "You 
mustn't  go  any  further.  Will  you  write  to  me  ?" 

He  hesitated  and,  quick  to  notice  such  things,  she  said : 

"Poor  man!  You  don't  know  where  to  write!  Daddy  is 
having  all  his  correspondence  addressed  to  the  English  Club 
at  Cadiz — will  you  remember  that  ?  Good-bye !" 

She  held  out  both  her  hands  and  he  took  them. 

"I  don't  think  you'd  better  kiss  me  again.  I  want  to  keep  as 
near  to  normality  as  I  can — I've  got  to  face  the  lynx-eyed  Mr. 
Hamon." 

The  lynx-eyed  Mr.  Hamon  was  watching  the  parting  from 
%  distance,  and  he  ground  his  teeth  as  her  companion,  disre- 
garding her  wishes,  put  his  arm  about  her  and  kissed  her. 


CHAPTER   XLI 
A  Photograph 

JIM  MORLAKE  had  one  predominant  habit  of  behaviour.  It  was 
to  clear  up  as  he  went  along.  Before  the  girl  was  out  of  sight 
he  hail  decided  on  his  line  of  action,  and  without  hesitation 
turned  off  from  the  field  path,  and  crossing  the  field,  reached 


200  THE  BLACK 

the  by-lane  which  led  to  the  village,  and  incidentally,  to  Mrs. 
Cornford's  cottage. 

Farringdon  must  give  the  girl  her  freedom  and  he  must  dis- 
abuse that  young  man's  mind  of  any  queer  ideas  which  had 
crept  into  his  crazy  brain. 

Mrs.  Cornford  opened  the  door  to  him,  and  he  saw  at  a 
glance  that  something  out  of  the  ordinary  had  happened  to 
trouble  her. 

"I  hope  I  haven't  come  at  an  inconvenient  moment." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Morlake,"  she  said,  and  showed 
him  into  her  little  sitting-room. 

It  was  not  hard  to  guess  where  the  trouble  lay,  for  the  sound 
of  ravings  came  to  him  distinctly. 

"I've  come  to  the  end  of  my  dreams,"  she  smiled,  "a  little 
suddenly." 

"That  is  a  tragic  place  to  reach,  Mrs.  Cornford,"  said  Jim. 
"What  is  wrong?" 

"I  was  hoping  to  stay  on  at  Creith,  but  everything  depended 
upon  my  keeping  Mr.  Farringdon  with  me." 

"Is  he  going?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Not  of  his  own  will,  but  I  must  ask  him  to  leave.  He  is  like 
a  maniac  to-day.  A  few  minutes  ago  he  came  in,  so  beside  him- 
self that  I  was  terrified." 

Jim  thought  for  a  moment. 

"I  want  to  see  him,"  he  said,  and  her  face  grew  grave. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,"  she  begged.  "Perhaps  to-morrow,  or 
later  in  the  day.  He  has  locked  his  door.  I  tried  to  take  him  a  cup 
of  tea  just  now,  and  he  would  not  open  it.  I  am  growing  fright- 
ened." 

Jim  felt  sorry  for  the  woman,  for  he  had  guessed  that  some 
tragedy  had  come  to  her  which  had  altered  the  whole  course 
of  her  life.  She  had  the  air  of  one  who  was  used  to  good  living 
and  comfortable  surroundings;  and  it  was  a  pain  to  him  to 
realise  what  this  drab  life  must  mean  to  her. 

"Will  you  forgive  me  if  I  ask  you  what  you  do  for  a  living  ?" 
he  asked.  "Perhaps  I  might  be  able  to  help  you?" 


A  PHOTOGRAPH  201 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Unless  you  wanted  music  lessons,  I'm  afraid  you  can't  be 
of  much  assistance  to  me,"  she  said,  and  he  laughed  softly. 

"Music  isn't  my  long  suit,"  he  said,  "but  I  may  be  able  to 
help  you  in  other  directions." 

The  raving  became  louder  and  he  looked  round  and  half- 
rose  from  the  chair  to  which  she  had  invited  him,  but  she  put 
out  a  restraining  hand. 

"Leave  him  alone,"  she  said.  "I  will  get  the  district  nurse. 
I  think  he  is  ill  again." 

"Will  you  forgive  me  if  I  ask  you  a  very  personal  and  very 
impertinent  question?" 

She  did  not  reply,  but  her  eyes  gave  him  encouragement. 

"You  have "  he  hesitated,  not  knowing  how  to  frame  the 

question — "you  have  lost  a  great  deal  of  money  at  some  time 
or  other  ?" 

"You  mean  I  have  come  down  in  the  world?"  she  smiled. 
"Yes,  I'm  afraid  I  have.  My  husband  disappeared  some  years 
ago  and  when  his  affairs  were  settled  it  was  found  that  he, 
who  I  thought  was  a  very  rich  man,  was  practically  penniless. 
That  is  my  whole  story  in  the  smallest  compass,"  she  said 
frankly.  "John  Cornford  was  rather  a  law  to  himself  and  did 
eccentric  things  which  made  tracing  him  a  very  difficult  mat- 
ter. Perhaps  I  was  ill-advised  at  the  time,  for  I  did  not  attempt 
to  make  enquiries.  I  trusted  Mr.  Hamon " 

"Hamon  ?"  he  said  quickly.  "Was  it  Hamon  who  gave  you 
the  advice  not  to  trace  him?  When  did  your  husband  disap- 
pear?" 

"Nearly  eleven  years  ago,"  she  said. 

He  made  a  rapid  mental  calculation. 

"In  what  month  ?" 

"In  May.  May  was  the  last  time  I  heard  from  him.  It  was  his 
last  letter  that  you  so  kindly  recovered  from  Mr.  Hamon." 

"May  I  see  it  ?"  he  asked. 

She  brought  it  to  him  and  he  read  it  through  twice. 

"Your  husband's  name  was  John  Cornford  ?" 

"Why?"  she  asked  eagerly.  "Did  you  know  him?" 

He  shook  his  head. 


20*  THE  BLACK 

"No,  on'/y — years  ago  I  had  a  very  singular  adventure.  It 
happened  a  week  after  your  husband  disappeared,  but  it  is 
absurd  to  associate  the  two  things.  Have  you  his  portrait?" 

She  nodded,  and  went  into  her  bedroom  and  was  gone  some 
time. 

"I  had  to  search  for  it,"  she  apologised.  "I  put  it  away  in  a 
place  of  safety. 

He  took  the  photograph  from  her  hand  and  he  did  not  betray 
by  so  much  as  a  twitching  muscle  the  shock  he  received. 

It  was  the  portrait  of  a  good-looking  man  of  forty,  clean- 
shaven and  obviously  satisfied  with  himself. 

But  it  was  something  else :  it  was  the  face  of  the  dying  sailor 
whom  he  had  picked  up  from  the  Portsmouth  Road,  and  who, 
before  his  death,  had  told  him  the  strangest  story  that  James 
Morlake  had  ever  heard. 

John  Cornf  ord  was  the  unknown  sailor  who  slept  in  a  name- 
less grave  at  Hindhead !  For  ten  years  he  had  trailed  the  man 
responsible  for  his  death,  seeking  the  evidence  that  would  bring 
fiim  to  justice. 

"Do  you  know  him?"  asked  Mrs.  Cornf  ord  anxiously. 

He  handed  the  portrait  back  to  her. 

"I  have  seen  him,"  he  said  simply,  and  something  in  his  tone 
told  her  the  truth. 

"He  is  dead?" 

Jim  nodded  gravely. 

"Yes,  he  is  dead,  Mrs.  Cornford,"  and  she  sank  down  into  a 
chair  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Jim  thought  she  was  weeping,  but  presently  she  looked  up. 

"I  have  always  felt  that  he  was  dead,"  she  said,  "but  this  is 
the  first  definite  news  I  have  received.  Where  did  he  die  ?" 

"He  died  in  England." 

Again  she  nodded. 

"I  knew  he  had  died  in  England.  Hamon  said  he  was  lost  in 
the  desert.  Can  you  tell  me  anything  about  it?" 

"I'd  rather  not,"  said  Jim  reluctantly,  "not  just  yet.  Will 
you  be  patient  for  a  little  while  ?" 

She  smiled 


A  PHOTOGRAPH  203 

"I've  been  patient  for  so  long  that  I  can  endure  for  a  little 
while  longer.  Please  understand,  Mr.  Morlake,  that,  though 
this  is  a  great  shock,  my  husband  and  I  were  not,"  she  hesitated, 
"were  not  very  great  friends.  I  don't  think  the  blame  is  mine.  I 
am  almost  ready  to  accept  it  all,  though  it  is  very  difficult  to 
analyse  where  the  blame  lies  after  so  many  years." 

"Can  I  have  that  portrait?"  he  asked. 

She  handed  it  to  him  without  a  word. 

"There  is  one  more  thing.  Before  your  husband  died,  he 

handed  me  a  sum  of  money  to  give  to  his  wife "  And  then, 

seeing  the  look  of  surprise  and  doubt  in  her  face :  "You  will 
understand,  Mrs.  Cornf  ord,  that  I  did  not  know  his  name." 

"You  didn't  know  his  name?"  she  asked  in  amazement. 
"Then  how ?" 

"It  is  too  long  a  story  to  tell,  but  you  will  have  to  trust  me." 

Then  suddenly  she  remembered  Jim's  antecedents  and  the 
proved  charge  against  him. 

"Was  he  mixed  up  in  any — any "  She  was  at  a  loss  how 

to  put  the  matter  politely. 

"In  any  crooked  business?"  smiled  Jim.  "No,  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  he  was  a  perfect  stranger  to  me  when  I  saw  him. 
I  tell  you  I  do  not  even  know  his  name." 

He  was  gone  before  she  began  to  ask  herself  how  John  Corn- 
ford  could  have  given  him  a  thousand  pounds  without  telling 
him  the  name  of  the  wife  to  whom  it  was  to  be  delivered. 

He  had  not  left  half-an-hour  before  Binger  came  to  the  door 
with  an  envelope.  It  contained  ten  notes  for  a  hundred  pounds, 
and  a  scrap  of  writing  on  a  visiting-card. 

"Please  trust  me,"  it  said,  and  for  some  reason  she  felt  no 
embarrassment  when  she  locked  the  money  away  in  her  box. 

"Did  you  wait?"  asked  Jim. 

"Yes,  sir,  and  she  said  there  was  no  hanswer." 

"I  suppose  it  sounded  like  that,"  said  Jim  with  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

"Have  you  any  plans,  sir  ?" 

"About  what?" 

"About  the  future,  about  going  back  to  town.  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  sir,"  said  Binger,  "the  country  don't  agree  with  me. 


204  THE  BLACK 

The  hair  isn't  like  what  it  is  in  London.  Some  like  country 
hair ;  personally  I  prefer  the  hair  of  the  Barking  Road." 

Jim  thought  awhile. 

"You  may  go  back  by  the  next  train.  Get  me  on  the  telephone 
and  ask  Mahmet  to  speak." 

Telephones  Mahmet  under  no  circumstances  would  touch. 
All  other  conveniences  of  civilisation  he  could  employ  famil- 
iarly, but  there  was  something  about  that  forbidding  machine 
which  terrified  him. 

Binger  left  by  the  next  train  with  the  greatest  alacrity.  He 
was  a  Cockney,  to  whom  the  quiet  and  unsociability  of  the 
country  was  anathema.  And  Jim  was  not  sorry  to  see  him  go, 
for  the  regularity  which  Binger  imposed  upon  life  was  re- 
pugnant to  him  at  the  moment.  Binger  was  the  spirit  of  the 
stereotyped.  He  did  things  in  a  regular  way  at  regular  hours. 
He  brought  morning  tea  as  the  clock  struck  seven;  set  the 
bath  tap  running  at  a  quarter  past ;  at  a  quarter  to  eight  Jim's 
shoes  fell  with  a  clatter  outside  his  bedroom  door.  The  Cockney 
valet  was  a  constant  reminder  that  time  was  flying. 

Jim  Morlake  needed  the  solitude,  for  a  new  factor  had  ap- 
peared, a  new  leader  from  the  main  stream  of  his  mystery.  It 
was  one  of  those  coincidences  which  appear  in  every  branch  of 
investigation,  that,  on  the  day  that  Mrs.  Corn  ford  revealed  the 
identity  of  the  dead  sailor,  Mr.  Julius  Welling  took  hold  of  a 
thread  that  was  to  lead  him  to  the  same  discovery. 


CHAPTER   XLII 

Captain  Welling:  Investigator 

JULIUS  WELLING  appeared  in  the  record  office  at  headquar- 
ters, and  the  officer  on  duty  hurried  to  discover  his  wishes,  for 
this  white-haired  man  seldom  made  a  personal  call,  and  if  he 
did,  there  was  big  trouble  on  the  way  for  somebody  or  other. 


CAPTAIN  WELLING:  INVESTIGATOR    20*, 

"Just  tell  me  if  my  memory  is  failing.  It  was  ten  years  ago 
when  The  Black  robberies  started,  wasn't  it,  Sergeant?" 

A  drawer  was  opened,  a  procession  of  cards  flickered  under 
the  Sergeant's  nimble  fingers,  and : 

"Yes,  sir — ten  years  this  month." 

"Good!  Now  give  me  a  list  of  all  the  murders  that  were 
committed  for  a  year  before." 

Another  drawer  shot  out  noiselessly. 

"Shall  I  make  a  list,  sir,  or  will  you  see  the  cards — they  have 
a  precis  of  the  crimes." 

"The  cards  will  do." 

A  package  of  fifty  large  cards  was  put  before  him,  and  he 
turned  them  over,  speaking  to  himself  all  the  time. 

"Adams,  John,  hanged ;  Bonfield,  Charles,  insane ;  Brasfield, 
Dennis,  hanged — all  these  are  'knowns,'  Sergeant." 

"The  unknowns  are  at  the  bottom,  sir." 

These  Welling  read  without  comment  until  he  came  to  the 
last. 

"Man  unknown,  believed  murder.  Assailant  unknown " 

His  eyes  opened  wide. 

"Got  it !"  he  cried  exultantly,  and  now  he  read  aloud. 

"Man,  apparently  sailor,  was  found  on  the  edge  of  the  Punch 
Bowl,  Hindhead,  unconscious.  Lacerated  wounds  and  contu- 
sion of  scalp.  No  identity  established.  Deceased  was  found  by 
a  cyclist,  whose  name  is  not  available  (U.S.D.I.6.  (See  P.O.) 
Foreign  Intelligence  Officers'  Regulation,  c.  970).  Decreased 
died  soon  after  admission  to  cottage  hospital.  All  stations  noti- 
fied and  portrait  published.  No  identification." 

Welling  looked  up  over  his  glasses. 

"What  is  U.S.D.I.6?"  he  asked. 

"United  States  Diplomatic  Intelligence — 6  is  the  number  of 
the  department,"  said  the  officer  promptly.  "The  P.O.  Regula- 
tion deals  with  the  treatment  offered  to  Foreign  Intelligence 
officers  in  this  country.  I  was  looking  it  up  the  other  day,  sir." 

"And  what  is  the  regulation  ?" 

"If  they  are  acting  on  behalf  of  their  Government,  with  the 
knowledge  of  our  people,  they  are  not  to  be  interfered  with 
unless  there  is  a  suspicion  that  they  are  engaged  in  espionage." 


fo6  THE  BLACK 

Captain  Julius  Welling  rubbed  his  nose. 

"Then  it  comes  to  this ;  the  cyclist  was  an  intelligence  officer 
of  a  foreign  Government.  When  he  was  questioned  as  to  the 
identity  of  the  dead  man,  I  presume  he  produced  his  card  to  the 
local  police  inspector,  and  the  local  police  inspector,  in  accord- 
ance with  the  regulations,  did  not  put  his  name  in  the  report." 

"That's  about  what  it  is,  sir." 

"Then  obviously,  the  person  to  see  is  the  local  police  in- 
spector," said  Welling. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  he  arrived  at  Hindhead  and  inter- 
viewed the  chief  of  police. 

"The  Inspector  who  took  that  report  has  left  the  service 
some  years  ago,  Captain  Welling,"  said  the  official.  "We've  got 
our  own  record,  but  the  name  of  the  man  would  not  be  there." 

"Who  was  the  inspector  at  the  time  ?" 

"Inspector  Sennett.  He  lives  at  Basingstoke  now.  I  remem- 
ber the  day  when  the  sailor  was  found ;  I  was  acting-sergeant 
at  the  time,  and  was  the  first  man  to  report  at  the  hospital,  but 
he  was  dead  by  then." 

The  hospital  authorities  gave  Welling  all  the  technical  de- 
tails he  required,  together  with  a  description  of  the  clothing  the 
man  had  worn  when  he  was  brought  into  the  hospital  uncon- 
scious. Welling  read  the  entry  very  carefully.  No  money  was 
in  his  pocket,  no  books  or  papers  of  any  kind  to  identify  him. 

"I  think,"  said  Welling  as  they  left  the  hospital,  "I  should 
like  to  see  the  place  where  the  body  was  found  if  you  know 
where  it  is  ?" 

"I  can  point  to  the  exact  spot,"  said  the  local  inspector. 

They  entered  the  officer's  car  and  drove  until  they  came  to  a 
lonely  stretch  of  road  that  bordered  that  deep  depression  which 
is  known  locally  as  the  Devil's  Punch  Bowl. 

"It  was  here,"  said  the  officer,  stopping  the  car,  and  pointed 
to  a  grassy  stretch  by  the  side  of  the  road. 

Welling  got  down  and  stared  for  a  long  time,  at  the  scene  of 
the  tragedy. 

"Did  you  personally  visit  this  place  after  the  man  was 
found?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  nodded  the  other. 


CAPTAIN  WELLING:  INVESTIGATOR   207 

"Was  there  any  sign  of  struggle,  any  weapon?" 

"None  whatever.  The  impression  I  had  at  the  time  was  that 
he  had  been  brought  to  this  place  after  the  assault  was  com- 
mitted and  thrown  on  to  the  grass." 

"Ah !"  said  Welling,  a  gleam  in  his  eye.  "That  sounds  to  me 
like  an  intelligent  hypothesis." 

He  scanned  the  countryside,  beginning  with  the  hollow  and 
ending  with  the  hill  that  sloped  up  from  the  road  on  the  oppo- 
site side. 

"Whose  house  is  that?" 

The  Inspector  told  him ;  it  was  the  property  of  a  local  doctor. 

"How  long  has  he  been  living  there  ?" 

"Fifteen  or  twenty  years.  He  built  the  house  himself." 

Again  the  detective's  eyes  roved. 

"Whose  cottage  is  that  ?  It  seems  to  be  empty." 

"Oh,  that  is  a  little  bungalow  that  belongs  to  a  lawyer  who 
'iied  two  or  three  years  ago.  It  hasn't  been  occupied  since  '14." 

"How  long  did  he  have  it?" 

"A  few  years." 

"And  before  then  ?"  asked  Welling,  continuing  his  inspec- 
tion of  the  country. 

"Before  then "  The  Inspector  frowned  in  an  effort  to 

recall  the  name  of  its  previous  proprietor.  "I  know ;  it  used  to 
belong  to  a  man  named  Hamon." 

"What!  Ralph  Hamon?" 

"Yes,  he's  a  millionaire  now.  He  wasn't  so  rich  then,  and  he 
used  to  live  here  in  the  summer." 

"Oh,  he  did,  did  he?"  said  Welling  softly.  "I'd  like  to  see 
that  cottage." 

The  path  up  the  hillside  was  overgrown  with  weeds,  though 
at  one  time  it  had  been  well  kept,  for  it  was  gravelled  and  in 
places  steps  had  been  made  to  facilitate  the  owner's  progress. 
The  house  bore  a  lifeless  appearance ;  the  windows  were  shut- 
tered, spiders  had  spun  their  webs  in  the  angles  of  the  door- 
posts. 

"How  long  did  the  lawyer  live  here,  you  say?" 

"He  never  lived  here.  He  owned  the  place,  but  I  think  it  has 
been  unoccupied  since  Mr.  Hamon  left — in  fact  J'ra  sure  ;t  bas 


2o6  THE  BLACK 

Mr.  Hamon  sold  it  to  him  as  it  stood,  furniture  and  all.  ... 
I'm  sure  of  that  because  Mr.  Steele — that  was  the  lawyer's 
name — told  me  he  intended  letting  it  furnished." 

Welling  tried  to  pry  open  one  of  the  shutters  and  after  a 
while  succeeded.  The  windows  were  grimed  with  dust  and  it 
was  impossible  to  see  the  interior. 

"I  intend  going  into  this  cottage,"  said  Welling  and  brought 
his  stick  down  with  a  crash  upon  one  of  the  window-panes. 

Inserting  his  hand,  he  drew  back  the  window-bolt  and  lifted 
the  sash.  There  was  nothing  unusual  about  the  appearance  of 
the  room.  It  was  a  simply  furnished  bedroom,  and  though  dust 
lay  thick  upon  every  article,  there  was  a  certain  neatness  about 
the  character  and  arrangement  of  the  furniture  which  defied 
the  dishevelling  results  of  neglect.  Nor  was  there  anything 
remarkable  about  the  other  rooms.  The  furniture  was  good  and 
the  carpets,  which  had  been  rolled  up,  were  almost  new. 

But  the  furnishing  of  the  room  did  not  seem  to  interest 
Welling.  His  attention  was  devoted  to  the  walls,  all  of  which 
were  distempered  in  pink.  At  the  back  of  the  house  was  a  fairly 
large  kitchen,  the  windows  being  heavily  barred. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  search  the  bureau " 

Welling  shook  his  head. 

"You  will  find  nothing  there,"  he  said.  "What  I  am  looking 
for  is " 

He  opened  the  window  and  pushed  out  the  shutter. 

"Now  I  think  I  can  find  what  I  want,"  he  said,  and  pointed. 
"Do  you  see  that  patch  ?" 

"I  see  nothing,"  said  the  puzzled  officer. 

"Can't  you  see  that  a  portion  of  the  wall  here  has  been  re- 
painted?" 

The  kitchen  was  distempered  white,  and  the  irregular  patch 
of  new  paint  was  distinct. 

"Here  is  another,"  said  Welling  suddenly. 

He  took  a  knife  from  his  pocket  and  began  to  scrape  the 
wash  carefully. 

"Murder  will  out,"  he  said,  speaking  to  himself. 

"Murder?"  said  the  other  in  surprise. 


CAPTAIN  WELLING:  INVESTIGATOR  209 

For  answer,  Welling  pointed  to  a  pear-shaped  stain  that  his 
knife  had  uncovered. 

"That  is  blood,  I  think,"  he  said  simply. 

With  his  pocket  handkerchief  he  cleared  the  dust  from  the 
table  and  examined  the  top  inch  by  inch. 

"It  has  been  scraped  here.  Do  you  feel  that?" 

He  felt  tenderly  along  the  surface  of  the  pine  wood. 

"Yes,  it  has  been  scraped." 

"Do  you  suggest ?" 

"I  suggest  that  your  unknown  sailor  was  hammered  to  death 
in  this  very  room,"  said  Welling. 

"But  Mr.  Hamon  would  have  known." 

"He  probably  wasn't  in  residence,"  said  Welling,  and  his 
companion  accepted  this  as  completely  exonerating  the  former 
owner  of  the  bungalow. 

"Naturally  you  wouldn't  think  of  searching  a  near-by  house 
to  discover  how  some  poor  sailor  had  met  his  death,"  mused 
Welling.  "I  think  that  is  all  I  want  to  know,  Inspector.  You 
had  better  nail  up  the  shutters  and  give  instructions  that  who- 
ever comes  to  take  possession  must  first  interview  me  because 
I  want  this  house  empty  for  a  week  or  two." 

He  came  down  the  hill  path  and  paced  the  distance  between 
the  spot  where  the  path  joined  the  road  and  the  place  where  the 
dying  man  was  found,  and  made  a  few  notes. 

"Now,  Inspector,  if  you  will  lend  me  your  car  to  go  to 
Basingstoke,  I  don't  think  I  will  trouble  you  any  further." 

He  found  the  pensioned  policeman  without  any  difficulty 
— he  was  a  well-known  local  character — but  it  was  less  easy 
to  induce  him  to  talk,  even  to  a  high  official  of  Scotland  Yard 
— or  possibly  because  of  that,  for  the  jealousy  between  the 
country  police  and  police  headquarters  is  proverbial. 

But  Captain  Welling  had  a  way  of  his  own ;  a  fund  of  anec- 
dotes calculated  to  soften  the  sourest  of  pensioned  officers  with 
a  grievance  against  headquarters. 

"It's  against  all  regulations,"  he  said,  mollified  at  last,  "but  I 
can  tell  you  all  you  want  to  know,  because  I  kept  his  card  as  a 
curio.  These  highbrow  intelligence  people  had  never  come  my 
way  before  and  naturally  I  was  interested." 


fio  THE  BLACK 

The  finding  of  the  card  involved  an  hour's  search  amongst 
such  oddments  as  an  old  man,  with  a  passion  for  hoarding  old 
race  cards,  old  dance  programmes  and  other  mementoes  of  a 
cheerful  life  will  accumulate  through  the  years.  Watching  him, 
Welling  wondered  whether  the  same  spirit  guided  Ralph 
Hamon  and  whether  it  was  just  the  innate  craving  of  the  miser 
for  holding  on  to  useless  scraps  of  paper  that  conduced  to  the 
folly  of  keeping  in  his  possession  a  document  which  might  hang 
him. 

"Here  it  is,"  said  the  pensioner  in  triumph  and  handed  a 
stained  card  to  his  guest. 

Captain  Welling  fixed  his  glasses  and  read : 
"Major  James  L.  Morlake,  U.  S.  Consulate,  Tangier." 
He  handed  back  the  card  with  a  beatific  smile. 
All  the  mysteries  but  one  were  solved,  and  that  one  defied 
solution.  It  was  the  mystery  of  Ralph  Hamon's  passion  for 
dinging  to  his  own  death  warrant. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

The  Man  in  the  Night 

CREITH  HOUSE  was  in  that  turmoil  which  comes  to  every  house, 
big  or  little,  when  the  family  is  on  the  point  of  leaving  for  a 
holiday.  Lord  Creith  was  looking  forward  to  his  voyage  with 
the  zest  and  enthusiasm  of  a  schoolboy. 

"Young  people  are  not  what  they  used  to  be,"  he  said.  "Now, 
when  I  was  your  age,  Joan,  I'd  have  been  dancing  round  at 
the  prospect  of  a  real  holiday  free  from  bother.  We  shan't  see 
Hamon  for  two  months.  That  ought  to  be  enough  to  make  you 
cheerful." 

"I'm  bubbling  over  with  cheer,  Daddy,"  she  said  wearily, 
"only  I'm  rather  tired." 

If  she  had  said  she  was  exhausted,  she  would  have  been 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  NIGHT  211 

nearer  the  truth.  The  events  of  the  day  had  taken  their  toll,  she 
realised,  as  she  dragged  herself  to  her  room,  undecided  as  to 
whether  she  should  go  to  bed  or  try  to  find,  in  the  pages  of  a 
book,  the  quietness  of  mind  that  was  so  desirable.  Oscillating 
between  the  two  alternatives,  she  took  the  course  which  was 
least  profitable.  She  thought.  She  thought  of  Jim  and  the  hag- 
gard man  at  the  cottage,  and  of  Hamon  a  little.  It  was  curious 
how  he  had  receded  into  the  background. 

Her  maid  came  to  pack  her  clothes,  but  she  sent  her  away. 
How  was  Farringdon,  she  wondered  ?  Was  that  outburst  of  his 
part  of  his  disease  .  .  .  was  he  mad?  She  wished  there  were  a 
telephone  at  the  cottage,  so  that  she  could  ring  up  Mrs.  Corn- 
ford  and  ask  her.  On  the  spur  of  the  moment  she  went  to  her 
writing-table  and  wrote  a  note,  but  when  her  maid  came,  in 
answer  to  her  ring,  she  had  changed  her  mind.  She  would  go 
down  to  the  cottage  herself  and  see  the  man,  reason  with  him, 
if  he  was  in  a  reasonable  frame  of  mind.  She  must  know  just 
where  she  stood. 

Lord  Creith  saw  her  coming  down  the  stairs. 

"Going  out  ?"  he  asked  in  consternation.  "My  dear  old  girl, 
you  can't  go  out  to-night.  It  is  blowing  great  guns !" 

"I'm  only  going  to  walk  as  far  as  the  lodge  gates,  Daddy," 
she  said. 

She  hated  lying  to  him. 

"I'll  come  with  you." 

"No,  no,  please  don't.  I  want  to  be  by  myself." 

"Can't  you  take  your  maid  ?"  he  insisted.  "I  don't  like  you 
roaming  around  alone.  By  gad !  I  haven't  forgotten  the  fright 
you  gave  me  on  the  night  of  the  storm." 

But,  with  a  reassuring  smile,  she  went  out  through  the  big 
doors  on  to  the  terrace  and  he  stood  uncertainly,  half -inclined 
to  follow  her.  She  followed  the  drive  almost  to  the  lodge  gates, 
then  turned  off  by  what  was  known  as  the  wall  path,  that  would 
bring  her  within  a  few  yards  of  the  cottage.  Half  a  gale  was 
blowing,  and  the  trees  creaked  and  groaned,  and  the  bare 
branches  rattled  harshly  above  her.  But  she  was  for  the  mo- 
ment oblivious  to  the  elements  and  to  any  storm  but  that  which 
raged  in  her  own  hear*.. 


*i2  THE  BLACK 

Mrs.  Cornford  had  had  a  very  uneasy  evening  with  her  pa- 
tient, and  the  doctor,  hastily  summoned,  now  took  a  graver 
view  of  the  disorder. 

"You'll  have  to  keep  nurses  here,"  he  said.  "I  am  afraid  this 
man  is  certifiable.  I'll  bring  in  Dr.  Truman  from  Little  Lex- 
ham  to-morrow  to  examine  him." 

"Do  you  mean  he  is  insane  ?"  she  asked  in  horror. 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  said  the  doctor.  "These  dipsomania  case* 
generally  end  that  way.  Has  he  had  a  shock?" 

"No,  nothing  that  I  know  about.  He  was  up  this  morning, 
walking  in  the  garden  and  was  quite  rational.  Then  this  after- 
noon," she  pointed  to  an  empty  whisky  bottle,  "I  found  it  in 
the  garden.  I  don't  know  how  he  got  it,  but  probably  he  sent  one 
of  the  villagers  to  the  Red  Lion." 

The  doctor  glared  at  the  bottle. 

"That  is  the  cause,"  he  said.  "I  don't  think  our  friend  will 
drink  again  for  a  very  long  time.  I  would  have  him  moved  to- 
night, but  I  cannot  get  in  touch  with  the  hospital  authorities. 
Hark  at  him!" 

The  patient  was  yelling  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  but  it  was 
quite  impossible  to  distinguish  any  consecutive  sentence. 

"Joan,"  occurred  at  intervals. 

"That  Joan  is  certainly  on  his  nerves,"  said  the  doctor. 
"Have  you  any  idea  who  she  is  ?" 

"None,"  said  Mrs.  Cornford. 

In  her  heart  of  hearts  she  harboured  a  faint  suspicion,  which 
she  had  dismissed  as  being  disloyal  to  the  girl  who  had  done  so 
much  for  her. 

"It  may  be  an  hallucination,  but  the  chances  are  that  there  is 
a  Joan  somewhere  in  the  world  who  could  fix  matters  for  him." 

As  he  went  out,  he  saw  a  girl  on  the  garden  path. 

"Is  that  you,  Nurse?"  he  asked. 

"No,  Doctor,  it  is  Joan  Carston." 

"Lady  Joan!"  he  gasped.  "Whatever  are  you  doing  out  to- 
night?" 

"I've  come  to  see  Mrs.  Cornford,"  said  Joan. 

"Well,  well,  you're  a  brave  girl.  I  wouldn't  turn  out  to-night 
for  anything  but  dire  necessity." 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  NIGHT  213 

"How  is  your  patient  ?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Very  bad,  very  bad.  Don't  you  go  anywhere  near  him." 

She  did  not  answer  him.  Mrs.  Cornford,  hearing  the  voices, 
had  hurried  to  the  door  and  was  as  much  surprised  as  the  doc- 
tor to  see  who  the  visitor  was. 

"You  must  not  see  him,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  vigor- 
ously when  Joan,  in  the  privacy  of  the  sitting-room,  told  her 
why  she  had  come. 

"But  I  must,  I  must !  I  must  talk  to  him." 

Her  heart  sank  as  the  sound  of  the  raving  voice  came  to  her. 

"Is  he  so  bad  ?"  she  asked  in  a  whisper. 

"He  is  very  bad,"  said  the  puzzled  Mrs.  Cornford. 

"You  can't  understand  why  I  want  to  talk  to  him,  can  you  ?" 
said  Joan,  smiling  faintly.  "I  see  that  you  can't !  Perhaps  one 
day  I  will  tell  you." 

She  waited  awhile,  listening  with  knit  brows  at  the  animal 
sounds  that  came  from  the  other  room. 

"He'll  not  be  quiet  all  night,"  said  Mrs.  Cornford.  "The 
nurses  are  coming  at  any  moment  now;  the  doctor  has  sent 
for  them." 

"Aren't  you  afraid?"  asked  Joan  wonderingly. 

Mrs.  Cornford  shook  her  head. 

"No,  I — I  once  had  a  case  almost  as  bad,"  she  said,  and  Joan 
did  not  ask  her  any  more. 

Her  journey  had  been  a  folly  and  this  end  to  it  was  a  fitting 
finish. 

"It  was  silly  of  me  to  come,"  she  confessed,  as  she  grasped 
her  cloak.  "No,  no,  don't  come  with  me.  I  can  find  my  way 
back  to  the  house.  And  please  don't  even  come  to  the  door." 

She  went  out,  closing  the  front  door  behind  her.  To  the  left 
was  a  lighted  window — Farringdon's  bedroom.  She  crept 
nearer  and  could  hear,  and  shuddered  as  she  heard,  the  wild 
sound  that  came  forth.  Then,  wrapping  her  cloak  about  her,  she 
stole  down  the  path. 

She  heard  the  click  of  the  gate  and  stepped  behind  the  big 
elm  that  grew  before  the  house,  not  wishing  to  be  seen.  Was 
it  the  doctor  ?  The  nurse,  she  supposed.  But  it  was  a  man's  fig- 


214  THE  BLACK 

ure  she  saw  dimly  in  the  darkness.  There  was  something  re- 
markable in  his  gait ;  he  was  moving  stealthily,  noiselessly,  as 
though  he  did  not  wish  his  presence  to  be  known.  She  could 
have  reached  out  and  touched  him,  he  passed  so  close.  Who 
was  he,  she  wondered,  and  waited  in  curiosity  to  discover  Mrs. 
Cornford's  visitor. 

But  he  did  not  knock  at  the  door.  Instead,  he  moved  towards 
the  window  of  the  sick  man's  room.  Then  she  heard  him  fum- 
bling with  the  window-latch.  It  was  a  casement  window,  and  as 
he  pulled  it  opened.  The  window-shade  began  flapping,  and  he 
lifted  it  with  one  hand,  while  the  girl  stood,  frozen  with  horror. 
She  could  not  move,  she  could  not  scream.  She  saw  the  glit- 
ter of  the  man's  pistol,  but  her  eyes  were  on  the  black-masked 
face. 

"Jim !"  she  gasped  feebly. 

At  that  moment  the  intruder  fired  twice,  and  Ferdinand 
Farringdon  screamed  and  rolled  over  on  to  the  floor,  dead. 


CHAPTER   XLIV 

Murder 

SHE  heard  a  terrified  cry  in  the  house,  and  her  first  impulse  was 
to  run  to  Mrs.  Cornford's  help.  But  somebody  else  had  heard 
the  shot.  There  came  the  noise  of  running  feet,  a  police  whistle 
was  blown  and  a  man  dashed  through  the  gates  and  ran  up 
the  path  as  the  door  opened. 

"What  was  that  ?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Cornford's  agitated  voice.  "Some- 
thing dreadful  has  happened.  I  think  Mr.  Farringdon  has  shot 
himself." 

The  girl  waited,  trembling  with  terror.  What  should  she 
do?  If  she  said  that  she  had  been  a  witness  of  the  shooting, 
she  must  also  describe  the  assailant.  As  the  visitor  disappeared 


MURDER  215 

through  the  door,  she  crept  to  the  garden  gate  and  slipped  out. 

There  were  flying  footsteps  on  the  road.  They  must  not  see 
her;  the  presence  of  these  strangers  decided  her.  In  another 
minute  she  was  racing  along  the  wall  path.  Her  heel  caught  in 
a  soft  path  and  she  all  but  fell.  Before  she  realised  what  she 
was  doing,  she  was  running  up  the  stairs  of  Creith  House.  Hap- 
pily, there  was  nobody  in  the  hall.  Lord  Creith,  who  was  in  his 
room,  heard  the  slam  of  her  door  and  came  along  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion about  his  collars.  He  found  the  door  locked. 

"Have  you  gone  to  bed,  my  dear  ?"  he  called. 

"Yes,  Daddy,"  she  gasped. 

The  room  was  in  darkness.  She  staggered  to  the  bed  and 
flung  herself  upon  it. 

"Jim,  Jim !"  she  sobbed  in  her  anguish  of  soul.  "Why  did 
you  ?  Why  did  you  ?" 

She  must  have  fallen  asleep,  for  she  came  to  consciousness 
to  the  insistent  knocking  on  her  door.  It  was  her  father's  voice : 

"Are  you  asleep,  Joan?" 

"Yes,  Daddy.  Do  you  want  me?" 

"Gan  you  come  down  ?  Something  dreadful  has  happened.'* 

Her  heart  sank.  She  knew  what  that  "something  dreadful" 
was. 

"Can  I  come  in  ?" 

She  opened  the  door. 

"Haven't  you  got  a  light  ?"  he  asked  and  was  reaching  for  the 
switch  but  she  stopped  him. 

"Don't  put  the  light  on,  Daddy;  I've  got  a  headache.  What 
is  it,  dear?" 

"Farringdon  has  met  with  an  accident,"  said  Lord  Creith, 
who  lacked  something  in  diplomacy.  "In  fact,  he's  shot.  Some 
people  think  that  he  shot  himself,  but  Welling  is  not  of  that 
opinion." 

"Is  Mr.  Welling  here  ?"  she  asked,  her  heart  sinking. 

Of  a  sudden  she  feared  that  shrewd  old  man. 

"Yes,  he  came  back  from  town  to-night.  He  is  downstairs. 
He  wanted  to  see  you." 

"He  wants  to  see  me,  Daddy?"  she  said  in  consternation, 
seized  with  a  momentary  panic. 


2i6  THE  BLACK 

"Yes,  he  tells  me  that  you  had  only  left  Mrs.  Cornford's 
house  a  few  minutes  before  the  shooting  occurred." 

He  heard  her  little  gasp  in  the  dark. 

"Oh,  is  that  why?"  she  said  softly.  "I  will  come  down." 

Welling  had  returned  to  Creith  that  night  and  had  had  time 
to  take  his  baggage  to  the  Red  Lion.  He  was,  in  fact,  on  his 
way  to  Wold  House  when  he  had  heard  the  shot  and  the 
scream.  The  Red  Lion  was  less  than  fifty  yards  from  the 
gardener's  cottage  and  the  wind  had  been  blowing  in  his  direc- 
tion. 

"There  is  no  doubt  about  it  being  murder,"  he  explained 
to  Lord  Creith.  "The  window  was  open  and  no  weapon  has 
been  found.  The  only  clue  I  have  is  footprints  on  the  garden 
bed  outside." 

"Was  he  dead  when  you  found  him  ?" 

"Quite  dead,"  replied  Welling.  "Shot  through  the  heart. 
Two  shots  were  fired  in  such  rapid  succession  that  it  sounded  to 
me  like  one,  which  means  that  an  automatic  pistol  was  used. 
You  have  no  idea  why  Lady  Joan  went  to  Mrs.  Cornford's  ?" 

"I  haven't.  Mrs.  Cornford  is  a  great  friend  of  hers,  and 
probably  she  went  down  to  enquire  after  Farringdon.  She  has 
been  there  before  on  that  errand,"  said  Lord  Creith  quietly 
and  Welling  nodded. 

"That  is  what  Mrs.  Cornford  told  me,"  he  said. 

"Then  why  the  dickens  did  you  ask  me?"  demanded  Lord 
Creith  wrathfully. 

"Because  it  is  a  detective's  business  to  ask  twice,"  said  Julius 
at  his  gentlest,  and  his  lordship  apologised  for  his  display  of 
temper. 

"Here  is  my  daughter,"  he  said.  As  Joan  came  into  the 
library  he  shot  a  quick,  searching  glance  at  her.  The  pale  face 
and  shadowed  eyes  might  mean  anything.  Mr.  Welling  was  one 
of  the  few  people  who  knew  the  secret  of  the  church  in  the 
forest  and  could  forgive  her  emotion. 

"His  Lordship  has  told  you  that  Farringdon  has  been 
killed?"  he  said. 

She  inclined  her  head  slowly. 


MURDER  217 

"You  must  have  been  very  near  the  house  when  the  shot  was 
fired.  Did  you  hear  anything?" 

"Nothing." 

"Or  see  anybody?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Not  in  the  garden  or  in  the  road  ?"  persisted  Welling.  "Mrs. 
Cornford  tells  me  that  you  had  not  left  the  house  a  minute 
when  the  shot  was  fired." 

"I  heard  nothing  and  saw  nobody,"  she  said,  and  he  looked 
thoughtfully  at  the  carpet. 

"The  wind  would  be  blowing  in  the  opposite  direction,"  he 
mused,  "so  it  is  quite  possible  you  did  not  hear  the  shot.  Is  there 
any  place  in  the  garden  where  a  man  could  conceal  himself?" 

"I  don't  know  the  garden  well  enough,"  she  answered 
quickly. 

"Hm !"  He  scratched  his  nose  with  an  air  of  irritation.  "You 
don't  know  this  man  Farringdon,  of  course  ?"  he  said,  and  when 
she  did  not  answer,  he  went  on :  "Perhaps  it  is  better  that  you 
didn't  know  him.  It  would  save  a  lot  of  unnecessary  pain  to 
many  people  and  your  knowledge  of  him  will  not  help  the  cause 
of  justice." 

Walking  down  the  dark  drive,  he  tried  to  piece  together  the 
puzzle  which  this  new  outrage  made.  Who  had  shot  Farring- 
don ?  Who  had  reason  to  shoot  him  ?  "Find  the  motive  and  you 
find  the  criminal,"  is  an  old  axiom  of  police  work.  Who  had  a 
motive  for  destroying  that  useless  life?  Only  one  person  in 
the  world — Joan  Carston. 

"Pshaw !"  he  said  with  a  shrug.  "Why  not  Lord  Creith?  His 
motive  was  certainly  as  obvious." 

He  had  come  back  to  the  village  singlehanded,  and  had  to 
depend  upon  the  local  constabulary,  represented  for  the  mo- 
ment by  a  sergeant  of  police. 

Nothing  had  been  found  in  the  preliminary  search  and 
Welling  decided  to  put  into  execution  his  original  plan,  which 
was  to  call  on  Jim  Morlake.  When  he  got  to  Wold  House  no 
light  showed  from  any  of  the  windows ;  the  garden  gate  was 
wide  open  and  that  was  unusual.  Welling  had  found  his  way 
along  the  road  by  the  aid  of  a  torch  and  he  was  using  this  to 


2i8  THE  BLACK 

guide  him  up  the  drive,  when  he  saw  what  were  evidently  fresh 
wheel  tracks.  The  garage  stood  at  the  side  of  the  house,  and, 
acting  on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  he  turned  his  steps  toward 
this  building.  He  came  abreast  of  it  and  put  the  light  on  the 
garage.  The  doors  were  wide  open  and  the  little  shed  was 
empty. 

Welling  knew  that  Jim  had  got  his  car  back — where  was  it? 

Cleaver  opened  the  door  to  him. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  Mr.  Morlake?"  he  said.  "I'm  afraid 
he's  out." 

"How  long  has  he  been  out?"  asked  Welling. 

"He's  been  gone  about  half-an-hour.  I  was  rather  surprised 
to  see  him  go,  because  he'd  already  made  arrangements  for  me 
to  call  him  early  in  the  morning — Binger  has  gone  back  to 
town." 

"Did  he  tell  you  he  was  going?''' 

Cleaver  shook  his  head. 

"No,  sir,  the  first  intimation  I  had  was  when  I  saw  the  lights 
of  Mr.  Morlake's  car  going  through  the  gates.  He  went  away  in 
a  great  hurry,  because  he  left  his  pipe  and  tobacco  pouch  be- 
hind and  he  doesn't  usually  do  that.  Not  only  that,  but  he  went 
by  the  window.  I  hadn't  any  idea  he  was  out  of  the  house  until 
I  saw  the  machine." 

The  French  window  in  the  study  was  still  unfastened.  Push- 
ing open  the  door,  Welling  looked  carefully  on  the  floor. 

"So  he  went  in  a  hurry,  did  he  ?"  said  Welling  softly.  "Went 
half-an-hour  ago  ?  Will  you  leave  me,  Mr.  Cleaver  ?  I  want  to 
use  the  telephone." 

His  first  call  was  to  Horsham  police  headquarters. 

"Hold  a  two-seater  car,  painted  black.  The  driver's  name 
is  Morlake.  I  want  you  to  hold  him — not  arrest  him,  you  under*- 
stand,  but  hold  him." 

"What  is  the  charge,  Captain  Welling  ?" 

"Murder,"  said  Welling  laconically. 


WANTED  219 

CHAPTER    XLV 

Wanted 

JIM  MORLAKE  had  disappeared.  He  had  been  seen  neither  at 
his  flat  nor  at  the  restaurant  he  affected  when  he  was  in  Lon- 
don. His  car  had  been  found  outside  the  door  of  the  garage 
where  it  was  usually  kept  when  in  London.  It  was  covered  with 
mud,  for  the  night  had  been  wet,  and  showed  evidence  of  hard 
driving,  but  there  was  no  note  nor  any  word  of  instructions  as 
to  its  disposal. 

Binger  had  not  seen  him,  and  Mahmet  the  Moor  presented 
a  stolid  unintelligent  face  to  the  questioners  who  came  to  him, 
and  disclaimed  all  knowledge  of  his  master.  The  afternoon 
newspapers  printed  prominently  a  request  to  Mr.  James  Mor- 
lake  to  report  himself  to  the  nearest  police  station,  but  this 
produced  no  result. 

"Always  in  trouble,  always  in  trouble !"  groaned  Binger.  "I 
can't  understand  why  Mr.  Morlake  don't  take  helementary  pre- 
cautions." 

Mahmet  did  not  answer.  If  his  knowledge  of  English  was 
slight,  his  understanding  of  Binger's  English  was  negligible. 

"You're  a  man  of  the  world,  Mahmet!"  continued  Binger, 
who  liked  nothing  better  than  to  address  an  audience  that  could 
not  under  any  circumstances  protest  or  interrupt  him,  "and  I'm 
a  man  of  the  world,  Mahmet.  We  know  young  gentlemen  are 
a  bit  eccentric,  but  this  is  going  beyond  a  joke.  Of  course,  Mr. 
Morlake  is  a  foreigner,  so  to  speak,  but  he's  a  Hanglo-Saxon, 
Mahmet,  and  Hanglo-Saxons,  like  you  and  me,  don't  go  dodg- 
ing off  to  nowhere  without  telling  nobody." 

That  great  Anglo-Saxon,  Mahmet  AH,  concealed  a  yawn  po- 
litely and  listened  with  stolid  patience  to  a  further  exposition 
on  the  thoughtlessness  of  employers.  When  Mr.  Binger  had 
talked  himself  to  a  standstill,  Mahmet  said : 

"I  go  way  a  bit." 

"What  you  are  trying  to  say  is :  'I'm  going  hout,'  "  said  Bin- 


220  THE  BLACK 

ger.  "I  wonder  you  don't  try  to  learn  the  English  language.  I'm 
willing  to  give  you  an  hour  a  day  for  heducational  purposes." 

"I  go  now?"  said  Mahmet,  and  Binger,  in  his  lordly  way, 
gave  him  leave. 

Mahmet  went  to  the  little  room  where  he  slept,  took  off  his 
white  jallab  and  dressed  himself  in  a  ready-made  European 
suit,  which  turned  him  from  something  that  was  picturesque 
to  a  nondescript  weed.  He  travelled  on  the  top  of  a  bus  east- 
ward, and  did  not  descend  until  he  had  reached  dockland.  Up 
a  side  street  was  a  small,  dingy-looking  establishment  that  had 
once  been  a  bar,  which  had  lost  its  licence  owing  to  the  mis- 
guided efforts  of  the  proprietor,  who  augmented  his  income  by 
conducting  a  betting  business.  It  was  now  a  home,  in  the  sense 
that  here  strange  coloured  folk  stranded  in  London  could  buy 
indifferent  coffee  and  could  sleep  in  a  cell  a  little  bigger  than  an 
egg-box  on  payment  of  a  sum  which  would  sustain  them  in 
comfort  in  their  own  countries  for  a  week. 

Mahmet  went  into  the  smoky  room  which  served  as  lounge 
and  card-room.  Half-a-dozen  dusky-skinned  men  were  play- 
ing cards,  and  near  one  of  these  Mahmet  saw  a  compatriot  and, 
beckoning  to  him,  they  retired  to  an  empty  alcove  at  the  far 
end  of  the  room. 

"My  good  man  has  gone,"  said  Mahmet  without  preliminary. 
"Will  you  write  to  your  uncle  in  Casa  Blanca  and  tell  him  to 
buy  four  mules,  also  that  he  send  a  message  to  the  Shereef  El 
Zuy  at  Tetuan,  telling  him  to  be  with  the  mules  near  the  light- 
house at  El  Spartel  on  the  twelfth  day  of  this  month?  You 
have  heard  no  more  ?" 

His  companion,  a  tall,  loose-made  Moor,  his  face  disfigured 
by  the  ravages  of  smallpox,  had  indeed  much  to  tell. 

"There  is  trouble  in  the  Angera  country,  and  there  has  been 
fighting.  I  think  the  Sultan's  soldiers  will  be  defeated.  Sadi 
Hafiz  is  supposed  to  be  with  the  Angera  people,  and  it  is  true 
that  they  are  making  great  preparations  at  his  house  in  the  hills. 
He  is  sending  serving  women  there.  Now  that  is  strange,  for 
Sadi  has  never  taken  servants  to  this  place." 

Mahmet  interrupted  him. 


POINTED  SHOES  221 

"You're  an  old  man,"  he  said  contemptuously.  "You  have 
told  me  that  story  twice,  and  that  is  the  way  of  old  men." 

There  were  other  items  of  gossip  to  be  picked  up,  but  Mah- 
met  did  not  stop  either  to  hear  the  latest  scandal  about  the 
Basha's  favourite  wife,  or  the  peculations  of  the  Grand  Wazir. 
He  hurried  back  to  the  flat,  made  a  bundle  of  his  clothes,  tying 
his  complete  wardrobe  in  a  pillow  case.  When  Binger  came 
the  next  morning  there  was  no  sign  of  Mahmet,  and  though  the 
indignant  valet  made  a  complete  inventory  of  the  contents  of 
the  flat,  he  discovered,  to  his  annoyance,  that  nothing  was 
missing. 


CHAPTER   XLVI 

Pointed  Shoes 

4  GREAT  change  had  come  over  Joan  Carston  in  the  last  few 
days.  She  was  the  first  to  be  sensible  of  the  difference,  and  had 
wondered  at  herself.  For  now  every  remnant  of  the  old  Joan 
had  been  annihilated  in  the  terrific  shock  of  this  supreme 
tragedy.  She  did  not  sleep  that  night,  but  sat  at  the  window, 
her  hands  clasped  on  the  broad  sill,  her  eyes  everlastingly 
turned  in  the  direction  of  Wold  House.  If  Jim's  light  would 
only  appear!  If  she  could  hear  the  sound  of  his  voice  in  those 
dark  and  stormy  hours  of  night !  Her  heart  yearned  toward 
him.  How  happy  she  had  been !  She  had  not  realised  her  bless- 
ings. 

Daylight  found  her  pale  and  hollow-eyed,  an  ache  in  her 
heart,  depressed  by  a  sense  of  utter  weariness  and  despair. 
With  a  start  she  realised  that  she  was  leaving  Creith  that  day ! 
She  could  not  go  away  now ;  she  must  wait  to  be  at  hand  in  case 
Jim  wanted  her.  She  did  not  judge  him,  for  that  was  beyond 
human  judgment.  Nor  did  she  attempt  to  analyse  the  condition 
of  mind  which  drove  him  to  that  terrible  act.  She  could  only 
set  the  facts  of  the  deed  badly,  with  a  numb  sense  of  resigna- 
tion to  the  inevitable. 


«2  THE  BLACK 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  She  dragged  her  weary 
limbs  across  the  floor  to  turn  the  key.  It  was  her  maid  with  the 
morning  coffee. 

"Put  it  down,"  she  said. 

"You  haven't  slept  in  your  bed,  m'lady !"  said  the  girl,  aghast. 

"No,  I  shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  sleep  on  the  yacht,"  she 
said. 

She  drank  the  coffee  gratefully  and  felt  refreshed  enough 
to  go  downstairs  into  the  open.  A  sky  grey  with  hurrying  clouds 
was  above  her ;  the  wind  was  keen  and  cold ;  pools  of  water 
stood  in  the  little  hollows  of  the  drive.  The  dreary  scene  was 
in  tune  with  her  heart.  Unconsciously  she  walked  down  the 
drive  until  she  came  to  the  lodge  gates  and  stood  there,  her 
hands  holding  the  bars,  looking  through — at  nothing. 

Then  her  eyes  turned  toward  the  cottage  and  she  shuddered, 
and,  turning,  she  walked  quickly  back  the  way  she  had  come. 
She  had  not  gone  a  few  paces  when  somebody  called  her,  and, 
looking  back,  she  saw  Welling  in  a  dingy  yellow  ulster  and  non- 
Jescript  hat  pulled  down  over  his  head. 

"You've  been  up  all  night  too,  Captain  Welling  ?"  she  said. 
His  chin  was  silvery  with  bristles,  his  boots  thick  with  mud, 
and  the  hand  he  raised  to  lift  his  hat  was  inexpressibly  grimy. 

"I  gather  from  that,  young  lady,"  he  said,  "that  you've  not 
had  a  great  deal  of  sleep,  and  I  don't  blame  you.  The  wind  has 
been  most  disturbing.  Is  his  Lordship  up  ?" 

"I  don't  know :  I  expect  so.  Father  doesn't  usually  rise  till 
nine,  but  I  think  to-day  he  has  made  some  sort  of  arrangement 
with  his  valet  to  get  up  at  the  unnatural  hour  of  eight."  She 
smiled  faintly. 

"You've  had  your  share  of  trouble  in  this  village,  I  think," 
said  the  detective,  walking  at  her  side ;  but  she  did  not  make 
any  rejoinder  to  that  most  obvious  statement.  "Queer  case, 
that — very  queer !  Have  you  ever  noticed  that  Morlake  wears 
broad-toed  shoes,  the  American  type  ?" 

"No,  I  haven't  noticed  anything  about  him,"  she  said  quickly, 
lest  she  should  be  an  unwilling  agent  to  his  hurt. 

"Well,  he  does,"  said  Welling.  "He  never  wears  a»y  other 
Vind.  I've  been  searching  his  house " 


POINTED  SHOES  223 

"He  is  gone,  then?  The  maid  told  me  last  night — he  has 
gone?" 

"Vanished,"  said  Welling.  "There  is  no  other  word,  he  has 
vanished.  That  is  the  worst  of  these  clever  fellows — when 
they  disappear  they  do  it  thoroughly.  An  ordinary  criminal 
would  leave  his  visiting  card  on  every  mile-post." 

He  waited,  but  she  did  not  speak,  till : 

"What  is  the  significance  of  the  broad-toed  shoes?"  she 
plucked  up  courage  to  ask. 

"Well,  it  was  a  pointed  toe  that  killed  Farringdon." 

At  his  words  she  spun  round. 

"You  mean — you  mean — that  Jim  Morlake  did  not  kill 
him  ?"  she  asked  unsteadily.  "You  mean  that,  Captain  Welling  ? 
You  are  not  trying  to  trap  me  into  saying  something  about 
him,  are  you  ?  You  wouldn't  do  that  ?" 

"I'm  capable  of  doing  even  that,"  confessed  Julius  with  a 
mournful  shake  of  his  head.  "There  is  no  depth  of  depravity 
to  which  I  wouldn't  sink,  and  that  is  the  truth,  Lady  Joan.  But 
on  this  particular  occasion  I'm  being  perfectly  sincere.  The  feet 
under  the  window  are  the  feet  of  a  man  who  wears  French 
boots  with  pointed  toes.  Also,  the  gun  he  used  was  of  much 
heavier  calibre  than  any  Morlake  owns.  I  know  the  whole  Mor- 
lake armoury,  and  I'll  swear  he  never  owned  the  gun  that  threw 
those  two  bullets.  Jim  Morlake  has  three :  the  one  he  carries 
and  two  Service  Colts.  You  seemed  pretty  sure  it  was  Mor- 
lake?" he  said,  eyeing  her  intently. 

"Yes,  I  was,"  and  then,  following  her  impulse :  "I  saw  Mr. 
Farringdon  killed." 

She  expected  he  would  be  staggered  by  this  revelation,  but 
he  only  guffawed. 

"I  know  you  did,"  he  said  calmly,  "you  were  hiding  behind 
the  tree.  It  was  easy  to  pick  up  your  footmarks.  You  came 
back  to  the  house  by  way  of  the  wall  path — I  found  the  heeJ 
of  one  of  your  shoes  there  and  guessed  you  were  in  a  hurry. 
If  you'd  lost  it  in  daylight  you  would  have  picked  it  up.  If 
you'd  lost  it  by  night  and  had  plenty  of  time  on  your  hands, 
you'd  have  looked  for  it.  Anyway,  you  wouldn't  have  lost  it,  if 
you  hadn't  been  running  at  such  a  speed.  Do  you  think  Pointed 


224  THE  BLACK 

Toes  knew  you  were  there? — by  the  way,  you  didn't  see  his 
face?" 

"How  do  you  know  ?" 

"Because  you  weren't  sure  whether  it  was  Morlake  or  not ; 
therefore,  you  couldn't  have  seen  his  face.  And  once  more, 
therefore,  he  must  have  been  masked.  Black?" 

She  nodded. 

"From  head  to  foot,  eh?  In  that  style  which  Mr.  James 
Morlake  has  made  popular.  I  guessed  that,  too,"  he  said  as  she 
nodded.  "It  may  have  been  a  coincidence,  of  course,  but  prob- 
ably wasn't." 

He  stopped,  and  she  followed  his  example.  He  was  looking 
down  at  her  with  his  head  thrown  back,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to 
possess  an  hypnotic  power. 

"Now  perhaps  you  can  give  me  a  little  information  that  will 
be  really  useful,"  he  said.  "Who  else  wears  pointed  French 
boots  in  Creith  besides  your  father?" 


CHAPTER  XLVII 
The  Yacht 

SHE  stared  at  him  for  a  minute,  and  then  burst  into  a  fit  of 
uncontrollable  laughter. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Welling,  for  a  moment  you  scared  me.  Daddy 
wouldn't  kill  anybody :  it  would  be  too  much  bother !" 

The  detective  was  unruffled. 

"I  am  not  suggesting  that  your  father  did  shoot  this  man. 
I  am  merely  saying  that  Lord  Creith  is  the  only  man  within 
ten  miles  who  wears  pointed  shoes." 

"How  silly !"  she  scoffed.  "Why,  lots  of  people  wear  pointed 
shoes.  Mr.  Hamon  wears  pointed " 

She  checked  herself  suddenly. 

"That  is  what  I  wanted  to  know,"  said  Julius  gently,  "that 


THE  YACHT  225 

is  all  I  wanted  to  know !  Does  Mr.  Hamon  wear  pointed  shoes  ? 
I  know  Lord  Creith  does,  because  I've  interviewed  the  village 
cobbler,  and  the  village  cobbler  knows  the  secret  history  of 
every  pair  of  boots  in  your  house." 

"Mr.  Hamon  is  so  rich  that  he  doesn't  need  to  have  his  shoes 
repaired,"  said  the  girl,  and  then,  seriously :  "You  don't  sus- 
pect Mr.  Hamon?  He  wasn't  in  Creith  last  night." 

"If  he  shot  Farringdon,  then  he  certainly  was  in  Creith.  If 
he  didn't  shoot  Farringdon,  I  don't  care  where  he  was,"  said 
Welling. 

The  reaction  after  that  night  of  terror  and  anxiety  was  so 
great  that  she  felt  hysterical.  She  could  have  flung  her  arms 
round  the  neck  of  this  interesting  old  man  and  hugged  him  in 
her  joy  and  relief. 

"Are  you  sure — absolutely  sure  ?" 

"About  Morlake?"  he  asked,  sensing  the  cause  of  her 
anxiety.  "I  don't  think  there  is  any  doubt  about  that.  He  is  one 
of  those  big-hoofed  fellows.  He  could  not  have  got  his  feet  into 
the  shoes  that  left  the  marks.  Though,"  he  added  cautiously, 
"it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  the  owner  of  the  shoes  was  also 
the  murderer.  What  makes  it  look  so  queer  against  Morlake  is 
that  Pointed  Shoes  was  in  the  grounds  of  Wold  House  last 
night.  We've  got  a  cast  of  his  feet  leading  toward  the  river,  and 
at  the  bottom  of  the  river  it  is  any  odds  on  finding  the  pistol 
with  which  the  crime  was  committed." 

"Why  do  you  say  that  ?"  she  asked. 

"What  is  more,"  he  went  on,  "I  guess  we're  going  to  get  a 
letter  from  some  person  unknown,  telling  us  exactly  where  to 
look  for  that  gun.  I  love  anonymous  letters,  especially  when  I'm 
expecting  'em.  The  letter  will  be  in  printed  characters  and  will 
be  posted" — he  looked  up  to  the  dull  sky  and  considered — "will 
be  posted  .  .  .  now  where  will  it  be  posted  ?  Yes,  I  have  it,"  he 
said  brightly.  "It  will  be  posted  at  the  G.  P.  O." 

"You're  a  prophet,"  she  smiled. 

"I'm  a  student,"  he  replied. 

When  they  got  to  the  house,  Lord  Creith  was  superintend" 
ing  the  labelling  of  the  baggage,  which  meant  that  every  pack- 
age had  been  labelled  wrongly. 


226  THE  BLACK 

"Hullo,  Welling!"  he  said.  "Who  have  you  arrested  this 
morning  ?" 

"I  never  arrest  people  on  Saturdays :  it  spoils  their  week- 
end," said  Welling.  "You've  had  a  telephone  message  from  Mr. 
Hamon  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Earl  in  surprise.  "How  do  you  know  ?" 

"It  came  last  night,  didn't  it?" 

"About  midnight.  How  on  earth  do  you  know  that?  If  the 
exchange  was  in  the  village  I  could  quite  understand,  but  my 
calls  are  put  through  from  Lexham." 

"It  was  about  something  he'd  left  behind,  asking  you  to  for- 
ward it?" 

"No.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  wanted  to  know  what  time  I 
would  be  leaving  this  morning." 

"Why,  of  course,"  nodded  Welling,  "that  was  the  natural 
thing  to  do.  About  twelve  o'clock  ?" 

"A  little  before,  I  should  imagine.  You've  been  listening  in," 
accused  Lord  Creith. 

When  he  went  away  to  discover  the  whereabouts  of  a  sport- 
ing rifle  which  had  mysteriously  disappeared  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, Joan  asked : 

"How  do  you  know  all  this,  Captain  Welling  ?" 

"I  guessed,"  said  the  old  man.  "It  is  natural  that,  if  Pointed 
Toes  was  friend  Hamon,  he  should  seize  the  earliest  oppor- 
tunity of  establishing  the  fact  that  he  was  in  town."  He  shook 
hi»  head  sadly.  "Telephonic  alibis  are  terribly  numerous,"  he 
said. 

Her  mind  was  occupied  by  one  pressing  thought,  and  after 
a  while  she  expressed  the  question  that  was  in  her  mind. 

"Why  did  Mr.  Morlake  go  away?"  she  asked. 

She  had  asked  Welling  to  breakfast  with  them,  which  meant 
breakfasting  with  her,  for  the  choler  of  Lord  Creith  was  rising 
rapidly.  Some  fishing  rods  had  joined  the  rifle,  and  his  favourite 
tennis  racquet  had  suddenly  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the 
earth. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Welling  helplessly.  "That  fellow  is  be- 
yond the  understanding  of  normal  people.  Something  is  wrong 


THE  YACHT  227 

— I  don't  know  where,  I  don't  know  how.  But  all  I  know  is  that 
he's  left  in  a  hurry." 

"You  don't  think  . . .  ?"  she  asked  quickly,  and  he  smiled  at 
her. 

"These  fellows  are  in  danger  and  out  of  danger  all  the  time," 
he  said  carelessly.  "Probably  he  is  carrying  out  some  quiet  lit- 
tle burglary " 

"Don't  be  horrid,  Captain  Welling,"  she  said  hotly.  "You 
know  Mr.  Morlake  is  not  a  burglar." 

"If  there  is  one  thing  I  know,"  said  Welling,  "it  is  that  he 
is  a  burglar !  I  don't  care  what  noble  incentive  he  has,  but  that 
doesn't  make  him  less  a  burglar.  What  is  more,  he  is  the  clever- 
est safe-breaker  in  this  country." 

"Has  he  stolen  much  money  ?"  she  asked. 

"Thousands,  but  it  has  all  been  Hamon's.  That  is  the  rum 
thing  about  this  burglar,  although  it  isn't  so  rum  to  me  as  it 
was.  He's  broken  into  other  safes  and  other  boxes,  but  not  one 
of  the  people  who  have  suffered  from  his  curiosity  have  com- 
plained that  they  lost  money.  Hamon  has  complained  about 
nothing  else.  And  the  crowning  queerness  of  his  action  is  that 
it  isn't  money  he  is  after." 

If  she  was  hoping,  as  she  was,  for  a  miracle  to  happen  and 
for  Jim  to  reappear  at  the  last  moment,  she  was  doomed  to 
disappointment.  The  car  which  took  her  and  her  father  to 
Southampton  passed  Wold  House,  and  she  craned  out  of  the 
window  in  the  hope  that  she  might  catch  one  glimpse  of  him. 
When  the  machine  had  passed  the  entrance  she  looked  back 
through  the  window  of  the  hood. 

"Expecting  anybody,  dear?"  asked  Lord  Creith  drily. 
"Missed  anything?" 

"Yes,  Daddy,  I  have,"  she  said,  with  some  spirit. 

r'You  can  buy  almost  anything  you  want  at  Cadiz,"  said  His 
Lordship,  wilfully  dense.  "Cadiz  is  my  favourite  city.  Unfor- 
tunately, it  is  rather  late  for  the  bull  fights." 

"I  never  dreamt  you  were  so  bloodthirsty,  Father,"  she  said. 

"Bulls'  blood,  yes,  but  human  blood,  no,"  he  said  with  a 
shiver.  "By  gad,  I'm  glad  to  be  out  of  Creith !  I  was  scared  that 


228  THE  BLACK 

they'd  hold  me  for  a  witness.  Happily,  I  was  drinking  the 
waters  of  Lethe  in  the  presence  of  the  impeccable  Peters  when 
the  murder  was  committed.  In  fact,  I  heard  the  shot  through 
the  window." 

"The  waters  of  Lethe"  was  Lord  Creith's  synonym  for 
his  normal  whisky  and  soda. 

The  first  emotion  which  Joan  experienced  when  she  saw 
the  yacht  lying  out  in  Southampton  Water  was  one  of  pleas- 
urable surprise.  She  had  expected  to  see  a  very  small  ship,  and, 
when  she  had  time  to  think  about  such  matters,  had  felt  a  little 
uneasy  at  the  prospect  of  a  voyage  across  the  Bay  of  Biscay  in 
a  tiny  craft.  L'Esperance  had  the  appearance  of  a  small  cruiser, 
and  was  unusually  large  even  for  an  ocean-going  yacht:  the 
same  idea  seemed  to  strike  Lord  Creith. 

"That  must  have  cost  friend  Hamon  a  pretty  penny,"  he 
said.  "Why,  the  infernal  thing  is  as  big  as  a  liner !" 

The  captain,  an  Englishman,  welcomed  them  at  the  gang- 
way, and  apparently  every  preparation  had  been  made  to  leave 
as  soon  as  the  party  was  on  board. 

"Mr.  Hamon  is  not  coming,  I  understand?"  said  Captain 
Green,  a  typical  teak-faced  sailorman.  "If  you  like,  my  Lord, 
we'll  get  under  way.  There  is  a  moderate  sea  in  the  Channel, 
and  with  any  kind  of  luck  we  ought  to  get  through  the  Bay 
without  so  much  as  a  roll." 

"Let  her  go,  Captain,"  said  Lord  Creith  gaily. 

The  girl's  cabin  was  beautifully  appointed  and  smothered 
with  hothouse  flowers.  She  did  not  trouble  to  ask  who  had 
sent  them.  Mr.  Hamon  would  not  lose  an  opportunity  of  em- 
phasising his  devotion.  She  was  too  fond  of  flowers  to  throw 
them  out  of  the  porthole,  but  the  knowledge  that  he  had  sent 
them  robbed  them  of  at  least  one  attraction. 

Lord  Creith  and  she  dined  alone  that  evening.  The  captain 
was  on  the  bridge,  for  they  were  steaming  down  the  crowded 
Channel,  and  fog  banks  were  reported  by  wireless  between 
Portland  Bill  and  Brest. 

"A  jolly  good  dinner,"  said  his  lordship  with  satisfaction. 
"You've  got  an  excellent  cook,  Steward." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  chief  steward,  a  Frenchman  who  spoke 


THE  YACHT  229 

English  much  better  than  his  lordship  spoke  French,  "we  have 
two." 

"All  the  crew  are  French,  I  suppose,  as  this  is  a  French 
yacht?" 

The  steward  shook  his  head. 

"No,  my  Lord,"  he  said,  "most  of  the  hands  are  English  and 
Scottish.  The  owner  of  the  yacht  prefers  an  English  crew.  We 
have  a  few  Frenchmen  on  board — in  fact,  we've  almost  every 
nationality,  including  a  man  who  I  think  is  either  a  Turk  or 
a  Moor.  He  came  on  board  at  the  last  moment  to  work  in  the 
pantry,  and  he's  been  ill  ever  since  we  came  out  of  the  Solent. 
I  believe  he  is  a  servant  of  the  owner's ;  we  are  dropping  him 
at  Casablanca." 

He  served  the  coffee,  and  Lord  Creith  took  a  gulp  and  made 
a  wry  face. 

"I  praised  your  dinner  too  soon,  Steward,"  he  said  good- 
bumouredly.  "That  coffee  is  execrable." 

The  steward  snatched  up  the  cup  and  disappeared  into  the 
mysterious  regions  at  the  back  of  the  saloon.  When  he  returned^ 
it  was  with  apologies. 

"The  chef  will  send  you  in  some  more  coffee,  my  Lord 
We've  got  a  new  assistant  cook  who  isn't  quite  up  to  his  job." 

After  dinner,  Joan  strolled  on  to  the  deck.  It  was  a  calm 
night,  with  a  sea  that  was  absolutely  still.  Through  the  mist 
she  could  see  the  stars  twinkling  overhead,  and  on  the  starboard 
beam  a  bright  light  flickered  at  irregular  intervals. 

"That  is  Portland  Bill,"  explained  one  of  the  officers  who 
had  come  down  from  the  bridge,  "and  the  last  of  the  lights  of 
England  you'll  see  until  you  return." 

"Will  it  be  foggy  ?"  she  asked,  looking  ahead. 

"Not  very.  I  think  you're  going  to  have  an  ideal  voyage  for 
this  time  of  the  year.  If  we  can  get  abreast  of  Cherbourg  with- 
out slackening  speed,  we  shall  be  quit  of  the  fog  for  good." 

She  stood,  leaning  over  the  taffrail,  talking  to  the  officer,  un- 
til Lord  Creith  joined  her,  smoking  a  long  cigar  and  at  peace 
with  the  world.  He  brought  with  him  an  acceptable  coat,  which 
she  was  glad  to  put  on,  for  the  night  was  very  cold — a  fact  she 
had  not  noticed  until  she  came  on  deck. 


230  THE  BLACK 

They  stood  side  by  side,  her  father  and  she,  watching  in  si- 
lence the  faint  phosphorescence  of  the  waters ;  and  then : 

"Happy,  old  girl?" 

"Very  happy,  Daddy." 

"Whom  were  you  sighing  about  just  now?" 

He  heard  her  low  laugh,  and  grinned  to  himself  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

"I  didn't  know  that  I  was  sighing.  I  was  thinking  about  Jim 
Morlake." 

"A  very  nice  fellow,"  said  his  lordship  heartily.  "An  Ameri- 
can, but  a  very  nice  fellow.  I  don't  want  a  burglar  in  the  family 
— naturally.  But  I'd  just  as  soon  have  a  burglar  as  a  money- 
lender. In  fact,  I  should  prefer  one.  I  don't  know  whether 
that  is  particularly  generous  to  our  beloved  host,  but  there  is 
something  in  the  sea  air  that  makes  me  candid." 

The  days  that  followed  were,  for  Joan,  days  of  almost  per- 
fect peace.  The  yacht  was  a  delightful  sea  boat ;  the  comfort 
and  luxury  of  the  appointments,  and  a  glimpse  of  a  scarcely 
remembered  sun,  added  to  her  happiness.  If,  by  some  miracle 
.  .  .  the  waving  of  a  magic  wand,  or  the  muttering  of  some 
potent  incantation,  she  could  have  brought  Jim  into  that  deep, 
red-cushioned  armchair — Jim,  in  white  flannels,  Jim,  with 
his  classical  face  and  a  patch  of  grey  at  his  temples.  .  .  .  She 
sighed. 


CHAPTER   XLVIII 

Mutiny 

THE  voyage  passed  without  event  until  the  morning  of  the  day 
they  reached  Cadiz.  Something  aroused  Joan  from  deepest 
sleep  to  most  complete  wakefulness.  There  was  no  sound  but 
the  sough  of  wind  and  sea,  and  the  peculiar  monotony  of  the 
"creak-creak"  at  intervals  which  is  a  ship's  own  noise.  The 
grey  light  showed  against  the  porthole  and  faintly  illuminated 
the  cabin.  Sitting  up  in  bed,  she  looked  around. 


MUTINY  231 

A  movement  by  the  door  attracted  her  attention;  it  was 
slowly  closing,  and,  jumping  to  the  floor,  she  ran  and  pulled  it 
open.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  big  figure  disappearing  in  the 
gloom  of  the  alleyway,  and  then  a  strange  thing  happened.  He 
had  almost  reached  the  end  of  this  narrow  passage  when  some- 
thing rose  from  under  his  feet  and  tripped  him.  Even  amidst 
the  sea  noises  she  heard  the  thud  as  he  struck  the  hard  deck. 
He  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant  and  then,  for  some  reason, 
he  fell  again.  Straining  her  eyes,  Joan  saw  a  man  stand  over 
him  and  pull  him  upright.  In  another  instant  they  were  out  of 
sight. 

She  locked  her  door  and  went  back  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep. 
It  may  have  been  an  accident ;  it  may  have  been  that  one  of  the 
crew  was  a  thief — few  crews,  even  a  yacht's  crew,  but  may 
include  one  of  those  pests  of  the  sea.  Perhaps  the  thief  had  been 
detected  by  a  watchful  quartermaster,  and  that  was  the  ex- 
planation of  the  little  fight  she  had  witnessed.  She  did  not  wish 
to  worry  her  father,  but  as  soon  as  she  was  up  and  dressed, 
she  went  in  search  of  the  chief  steward  and  reported  what  had 
happened.  He  was  genuinely  concerned. 

"I  don't  know  who  it  could  have  been,  Miss.  The  watch  were 
on  deck,  scrubbing  down,  at  daybreak,  and  there's  a  night 
steward  on  duty  in  the  alleyway.  What  was  the  man  like  ?" 

"As  far  as  I  could  see,  he  wore  a  white  singlet  and  a  pair 
of  blue  trousers." 

"Was  he  tall  or  short?" 

"He  was  very  big,"  she  said,  and  the  man  passed  the  crew 
under  review. 

"I'll  speak  to  the  chief  officer,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  want  to  make  any  trouble." 

"Your  Ladyship  will  probably  make  more  trouble  if  you 
don't  report  this,"  he  retorted. 

Lord  Creith,  who  generally  found  the  most  comfortable 
explanation,  suggested  that  she  had  been  dreaming — a  sugges- 
tion which  she  indignantly  rejected. 

"Then,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "probably  the  man  was  walking 
in  his  sleep !  You  should  have  locked  your  cabin  door." 

She  spent  two  full  and  delightful  days  at  Cadiz,  that  city  of 


232  THE  BLACK 

languid,  beautiful  women  and  unshaven  men;  drove  out  to 
Jerez  to  see  the  wine  pressed,  and  learnt — though  she  had  a 
dim  idea  that  she  had  already  learnt  this  at  school — that  Jerez 
had  been  corrupted  into  English  as  "sherry"  and  had  given  its 
name  to  a  wine.  The  bad  weather  had  passed ;  the  sky  was  a 
delightful  blue,  and  if  the  wind  that  blew  down  from  the  sierras 
had  a  nip  that  made  the  men  of  Cadiz  wear  their  high-collared 
blue  cloaks,  it  was  to  the  girl  a  tonic  and  a  stimulant. 

They  left  Cadiz  at  midnight  on  the  third  day,  and  at  day- 
break the  stopping  of  the  engines  woke  her.  She  heard  the  rat- 
tle of  a  hawser  and  splash  as  the  anchor  fell  into  the  water,  and, 
looking  out  of  her  porthole,  saw  a  twinkle  of  lights  near  at 
hand.  It  was  her  first  glimpse  of  Africa,  and  the  mystery  and 
wonder  of  it  thrilled  her.  In  daylight,  much  of  the  enchantment 
was  gone.  She  saw  a  straggle  of  white  houses  fringing  a  lemon- 
coloured  beach ;  beyond,  the  blue  of  hills.  In  the  cold,  cheerless 
light  of  morning  the  mystery  had  gone.  She  shivered. 

The  stewardess  came  in  answer  to  her  ring  of  the  bell. 

"Where  are  we  ?"  she  asked. 

"At  Suba,  a  little  coast  village." 

At  that  moment  a  lowered  boat  came  into  view  through  the 
porthole  and  disappeared.  She  heard  the  splash  of  it  as  it  struck 
the  water. 

"The  crew  are  going  ashore  to  bring  out  some  cases  of  curios 
that  Mr.  Hamon  wishes  to  be  brought  home,"  explained  the 
stewardess,  and  through  the  porthole  Joan  watched  the  boat 
draw  away. 

Lord  Creith  knocked  at  the  door  at  that  moment  and  came 
in  in  his  dressing-gown. 

"This  is  Suba,"  he  explained  unnecessarily.  "Put  your  coat 
on  and  come  up  on  deck,  Joan." 

She  slipped  into  her  fur  coat  and  followed  him  up  the  com- 
panion-way. Except  for  one  sailor,  the  deck  was  deserted.  On 
the  bridge  was  a  solitary  officer,  leaning  over  the  bridge  and  re- 
garding the  retreating  boat  without  interest. 

"There  aren't  many  people  left  on  the  ship,"  she  said, 
cing  round. 


MUTINY  233 

Lord  Creith  looked  up  at  the  clouds  with  a  nautical  eye. 

"A  man  and  a  boy  could  navigate  this  ship  on  a  day  like 
this,"  he  said.  "There  is  no  wind." 

And  then,  looking  across  to  the  port  side,  he  saw  a  tall,  white, 
billowing  sail  moving  slowly  toward  them. 

"There  is  wind  enough,"  she  smiled.  "Aren't  they  coming 
rather  close?" 

"Bless  you  no !"  said  his  lordship  cheerfully.  "These  fellows 
can  handle  a  boat  better  than  any  Europeans.  Moors  are  born 
seamen,  and  by  the  cut  of  his  sail  I  should  think  it  is  a  Moor- 
ish craft.  This  coast  is  the  home  of  the  Barbary  pirates." 

She  glanced  nervously  round  at  the  approaching  sail,  but  he 
went  on,  oblivious  to  the  impression  he  was  creating. 

"For  hundreds  of  years  they  levied  a  tax  on  every  ship  that 
passed.  Why,  the  word  'tariff'  comes  from  Tarifa,  a  little 
village  on  the  other  side  of  the  Straits " 

He  stopped  as  the  girl  turned  quickly.  They  had  both  heard 
that  deep  "oh !"  of  pain. 

"What  was  that?"  asked  Lord  Creith.  "It  sounded  like 
somebody  hurt." 

There  was  nobody  in  sight,  and  he  went  forward  to  the 
bridge.  As  he  did  so,  a  big  man  crept  up  the  companion  ladder, 
and  Joan  immediately  recognised  the  figure  she  had  seen  in 
the  alleyway.  Barefooted,  the  man  approached  the  unconscious 
officer  leaning  over  the  taffrail. 

"Look  out !"  yelled  Lord  Creith. 

The  officer  spun  round  and  the  blow  just  missed  his  head, 
but  caught  him  on  the  shoulder  and  he  fell  with  a  cry  of  pain. 
In  another  instant  the  big  man  had  turned,  and  the  girl  saw 
with  horror  that  in  his  hand  he  carried  a  huge  hammer. 

That  diversion  saved  the  officer's  life.  Injured  as  he  was, 
he  thrust  himself  forward  and  tobogganed  down  the  steep 
ladder,  falling  on  to  the  deck.  In  an  instant  he  was  on  his  feet 
and  climbed  down  the  companion-way,  the  big,  white-faced 
Moor  in  pursuit. 

"Down  the  companion,  quick !"  cried  Lord  Creith,  and  she 
obeyed. 


234  THE  BLACK 

As  she  flew  down  the  ladder,  she  saw  over  her  shoulder  the 
high  white  sail  of  the  dhow  rising  sheer  above  the  ship's  side, 
and  heard  the  jabber  of  excited,  guttural  voices. 

"Run  along  the  alleyway  into  my  cabin,"  cried  Lord  Creith. 

She  sat  panting  on  the  sofa,  whilst  her  father  shot  the  bolt 
in  the  door.  He  opened  his  bag  and  made  a  search. 

"My  revolver  is  gone,"  he  said. 

"What  is  wrong  ?"  she  asked.  She  was  calm  now. 

"It  looks  precious  like  mutiny,"  said  his  lordship  grimly. 

She  heard  a  patter  of  feet  on  the  deck  above,  and  again  a 
babble  of  talk. 

"They've  boarded  us  from  the  dhow,"  said  her  father 
quietly,  and  the  sound  of  somebody  swearing  softly  came  to 
them  from  the  next  cabin. 

"Is  anybody  there  ?"  Lord  Creith  called. 

The  partition  dividing  the  cabins  did  not  extend  to  the  upper 
deck,  and  a  space  of  three  or  four  inches  made  conversation 
possible.  It  was  the  wounded  officer,  they  discovered.  No  bones 
were  broken,  he  told  them,  but  he  was  in  considerable  pain. 

"Have  you  any  kind  of  firearm  on  your  side?"  he  asked 
anxiously. 

Lord  Creith  had  to  confess  sadly  that  he  was  unarmed. 

"What  has  happened  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  was  the  reply.  "Most  of  the  crew  are  ashore. 
The  Captain  and  the  first  and  second  officers  have  gone  to  col- 
lect some  packing-cases." 

"How  many  of  the  crew  are  left  on  the  ship?" 

There  was  a  silence  as  the  officer  calculated,  and  then : 

"Six,  including  the  steward.  One  deckhand,  two  chefs  and 
a  cook's  mate,  and,  of  course,  the  Moor  we  took  on  at  South- 
ampton. He  is  the  fellow  who  bowled  me  over.  I  think  they 
must  have  got  the  deckhands,  and  the  chef  wouldn't  fight.  That 
leaves  us  with  the  cook's  mate." 

He  laughed  bitterly. 

"And  the  cook's  mate  is  going  to  have  a  bad  time,"  he  said 
after  a  pause.  "He  beat  up  the  Moor  a  few  days  ago.  I  only 
heard  about  it  in  the  early  watch.  You  remember  your  daughter 
complained — she  is  with  you,  I  suppose?" 


MUTINY  235 

"Yes,"  said  Lord  Creith.  "Was  it  the  Moor  who  opened 
the  door?" 

"That's  the  man.  I  suppose  he  was  looking  for  loose  guns," 
said  the  officer.  "The  cook's  mate  happened  to  be  on  duty  and 
saw  the  fellow,  and  there  was  trouble !  And  there's  worse  trou- 
ble ahead — here  they  come." 

There  was  a  patter  of  bare  feet  in  the  alleyway,  and  some- 
body hammered  on  the  cabin  door. 

"You  come  out,  you  not  be  hurt,  mister,"  said  a  husky  voice. 

Lord  Creith  made  no  reply. 

Crash!  The  door  shivered  under  the  blow,  but  it  was  obvious 
that  the  narrow  alleyway  did  not  give  sufficient  play  to  the 
hammer,  for  the  lock  remained  intact.  Again  the  blow  fell,  and 
a  long  crack  appeared  in  one  of  the  panels  of  the  door. 

Lord  Creith  looked  round  helplessly. 

"There  is  no  kind  of  weapon  here,"  he  said  in  a  slow  voice 
to  the  girl.  "Even  my  wretched  razor  is  a  safety !" 

He  looked  at  the  porthole. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  squeeze  through  that?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  won't  leave  you,  Daddy,"  she  said,  and  he  patted  her 
shoulder. 

"I  don't  think  you  could  get  through,"  he  said,  eyeing  the 
porthole  dubiously. 

Crack!  Bang!  The  panel  broke,  but  it  was  not  the  sound 
of  its  smashing  they  heard.  Outside  in  the  alleyway  there  was 
a  quick  scurry  of  feet,  a  shot  was  fired,  and  another.  Then, 
from  the  other  end  of  the  alleyway  came  three  shots  in  quick 
succession.  Somebody  fell  heavily  against  the  wall  with  a  hide- 
ous howl,  and  then  there  was  a  momentary  silence. 

"What  was  that  ?" 

It  was  the  officer's  voice  from  the  next  cabin. 

"I  think  it  was  somebody  shooting,"  said  Lord  Creith.  He 
peered  through  the  splintered  panel.  The  man  on  the  floor 
was  still  howling  dismally,  but  there  was  no  other  sound. 

"Look,  Daddy,"  cried  the  girl  excitedly.  "The  boat  is  re- 
turning." 


2.36  THE  BLACK 

She  pointed  through  the  porthole,  and  over  her  shoulder 
he  saw  the  two  boats  rowing  furiously  toward  the  yacht. 

And  now  the  alleyway  pandemonium  broke  out.  Again  came 
the  rush  of  feet  and  the  deafening  staccato  of  the  automatic. 

"Who  is  it  ?  It  must  be  one  of  the  deckhands.  Where  did  he 
get  his  gun  ?" 

The  questions  were  fired  across  the  top  of  the  partition,  but 
Lord  Creith  was  too  intent  upon  the  struggle  outside.  The  fir- 
ing had  ceased,  but  the  screaming  fury  of  the  fighters  went 
on.  Presently  there  was  an  exultant  yell  and  somebody  was 
dragged  along  the  alleyway. 

"They've  got  him,"  said  Lord  Creith,  a  little  hoarsely.  "I 
wonder  who  he  is." 

Then,  as  the  leader  of  the  mob  came  parallel  with  the  door, 
a  voice  hailed  them  in  English. 

"Don't  open  your  door  until  the  crew  come  aboard.  They 
are  returning." 

The  girl  stood  petrified  at  the  sound  of  the  voice,  and  push- 
ing her  father  aside  she  stooped  to  peer  through  the  broken 
panel.  She  saw  a  man  struggling  in  the  hands  of  his  white- 
robed  captors ;  a  tall  man  in  the  soiled  white  garb  of  a  cook.  It 
was  Jim  Morlake ! 


CHAPTER   XLIX 

The  Man  on  the  Beach 

JOAN  screamed  and  tugged  at  the  door. 

"The  key,  the  key,  Father !"  she  said  wildly.  "It  is  Jim !" 

But  he  dragged  her  back. 

"My  dear,  you're  not  going  to  help  Jim  Morlake  or  yourself 
by  putting  yourself  in  the  hands  of  these  beasts,"  he  said,  and 
presently  her  struggles  ceased  and  she  hung  heavily  in  his 
arms. 

He  laid  her  on  the  settee  and  ran  to  the  porthole.  The  boats 


THE  MAN  ON^  THE  BEACH  237 

were  nearing  the  yacht,  and  he  could  see,  by  the  attitude  of  the 
Captain,  who  stood  in  the  stern,  revolver  in  hand,  that  news  of 
the  mutiny  had  reached  him.  There  was  no  noise  from  the 
alleyway  nor  overhead  on  the  deck ;  only  the  whining  of  the 
wounded  man  outside  the  door  broke  the  complete  stillness.  In 
another  minute  they  heard  the  boats  bump  against  the  side 
of  the  ship,  and  the  rattle  of  booted  feet  above  them.  And 
then  came  the  Captain's  voice. 

"Is  anybody  here?"  he  called. 

Lord  Creith  unlocked  the  cabin  door  and  stepped  out  over 
the  prostrate  figure. 

"Thank  God  you're  safe!"  said  Captain  Green  fervently. 
"The  young  lady,  is  she  all  right?" 

Joan  had  recovered,  and  though  she  lay  without  movement 
she  was  conscious.  Then  realising  that  she  alone  knew  the  secret 
of  the  ' 'cook's"  identity,  she  staggered  to  her  feet. 

"Jim!  They  have  taken  Jim!"  she  said  wildly. 

"Your  cook."  Lord  Creith  supplied  the  startling  informa- 
tion. 

"My  cook!'"  said  the  puzzled  captain,  and  then  a  light 
dawned  on  him.  "You  mean  the  assistant  cook — the  man  I 
took  on  at  Southampton  ?  Is  he  the  fellow  who  did  this  ?"  He 
looked  down  at  the  motionless  figure  in  the  alleyway.  "If  they 
have  taken  him,  he  is  on  the  dhow,"  said  the  Captain.  "It 
pushed  off  as  we  came  on  board." 

He  ran  up  to  the  deck,  and  the  girl  did  her  best  to  imitate 
his  alacrity,  but  her  limbs  were  shaking  and  she  was  curiously 
weak.  The  dhow  was  already  a  dozen  yards  from  the  ship,  and 
was  heeling  over  under  the  fresh  land  breeze,  her  big  leg-o'- 
mutton  sail  filling. 

"Are  you  sure  they've  taken  him  on  board  ?"  asked  the  Cap- 
tain.  "He  may  be  amongst  the "  He  did  not  finish  the  sen- 
tence. 

One  of  the  crew  was  dead,  another  so  badly  injured  that  his 
life  was  despaired  of,  and  search  parties  were  sent  to  discover 
other  casualties,  but  no  sign  of  Jim  was  reported. 

"We  can  overtake  them,"  said  Lord  Creith,  and  the  Captain 
nodded. 


238  THE  BLACK 

"I'll  get  up  anchor,  but  it  is  by  no  means  certain  we  can  do 
much  unless  they  are  fools  enough  to  keep  to  the  open  sea.  I 
think  they'll  run  round  the  point,  and  there  I  shan't  be  able 
to  follow  them,  except  with  boat  crews." 

The  dhow  was  gaining  way  every  minute.  The  white  wake 
at  her  stern  was  significant. 

The  wireless  operator,  in  his  little  cabin  on  the  upper  deck, 
had  been  overlooked  by  the  boarders,  and  it  was  he  who  had 
signalled  the  Captain  back.  He  had  done  something  more :  he 
had  got  in  touch  with  an  American  destroyer  that  was  cruising 
some  twenty  miles  away,  and  a  blur  of  smoke  showed  on  the 
horizon. 

"Whether  she  can  come  up  before  the  dhow  gets  to  safety  is 
a  question,"  said  the  Captain. 

At  that  moment  the  white-sailed  vessel  changed  her  course, 
and  the  Captain  grunted. 

"She  is  going  inshore  round  the  point.  I  thought  she  would," 
he  said. 

"What  will  they  do  with  him  ?"  asked  the  girl,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment he  did  not  know  to  whom  she  referred. 

"Oh,  the  cook?  I  don't  suppose  he'll  come  to  much  harm. 
If  they  thought  he  was  a  man  of  substance  they  would  hold  him 
to  ransom.  As  it  is,  he'll  probably  be  fairly  well  treated.  The 
Moor  isn't  particularly  vindictive  to  the  enemies  he  takes  in 
fair  fight." 

The  wind  had  freshened  and  was  blowing  strongly  when 
the  yacht's  bow  turned  in  pursuit  of  the  Moorish  craft,  but 
by  this  time  he  was  rounding  the  promontory  that  ran  out  to 
sea  for  two  miles,  and  by  his  tactics  the  Captain  guessed  what 
plan  was  being  followed. 

"We  shall  never  get  up  to  them,"  he  said,  "and  if  we  do, 
we  shan't  find  the  man  we  want." 

"Why?"  asked  Joan,  but  he  did  not  supply  the  gruesome 
information. 

In  his  days  he  had  been  a  member  of  the  Royal  Navy,  en- 
gaged in  the  suppression  of  slave  traffic  on  the  East  Coast  of 
Africa,  and  he  had  seen  slaves  dropped  overboard,  with  a  bar 
of  ir«n  about  their  necks,  in  order  that  the  incriminating  evi- 


THE  MAN  ON  THE  BEACH  239 

dence  against  the  captors  should  be  removed.  And  he  did  not 
doubt  that  the  skipper  of  the  dhow  would  follow  the  same  pro- 
cedure. 

When  they  rounded  the  point,  the  dhow  was  so  close  inshore 
that  it  seemed  to  have  grounded. 

"They're  landing,"  said  Captain  Green,  watching  the  boat 
through  his  glasses,  "and  there  goes  my  cook !" 

The  girl  almost  snatched  the  binoculars  from  him  and 
focussed  them  on  the  beach.  Her  hand  trembled  so  violently 
that  all  she  saw  was  a  blur  of  white  figures  and  yellow  sand, 
but  presently  she  mastered  her  emotion  and  held  the  glasses 
upon  the  tall,  dark  form  that  walked  leisurely  up  the  beach. 

"That  is  he,"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  Jim,  Jim !" 

"Do  you  know  him?" 

She  nodded. 

"Then  there  is  no  need  for  me  to  pretend  ignorance,"  said 
the  Captain,  "and  I  will  ask  you  to  keep  this  matter  from  my 
owners.  Captain  Morlake  and  I  are  old  acquaintances.  I  knew 
him  when  he  was  at  Tangier.  He  came  to  me  in  a  great  hurry 
on  the  Friday  night  before  we  sailed,  and  begged  me  to  ship 
him  on  board  the  yacht  as  an  extra  hand.  Knowing  that  he  has 
always  been  mixed  up  in  queer  adventures — he  was  an  intelli- 
gence officer,  and  may  be  still,  for  all  I  know — I  took  him  on  as 
a  cook.  He  warned  me  of  what  would  happen,  and,  like  a  fool, 
I  thought  he  was  romancing." 

"He  warned  you  of  this  attack?"  said  Lord  Creith  in  aston- 
ishment. "How  could  he  know  ?" 

The  Captain  shook  his  head. 

"That  I  can't  tell  you,  but  he  did  know,  though  I  imagine  he 
wasn't  sure  where  the  attempt  would  be  made,  because  he  said 
nothing  before  I  went  ashore  to  pick  up  those  darned  packing- 
cases — which  were  not  there !" 

The  destroyer  was  now  visible  to  the  naked  eye. 

"She  is  useless  to  us,"  said  the  Captain,  shaking  his  head. 
"Before  she  can  land  a  party,  these  fellows  will  be  well  away 
into  the  desert."  He  bit  his  lip  thoughtfully.  "They  won't  hurt 
Captain  Morlake.  He  speaks  the  language,  and  there  is  hardly 
a  big  man  in  Morocco  who  doesn't  know  him.  I  should  im- 


240  THE  BLACK 

agine  that  at  this  moment  the  captain  of  the  dhow  is  scared  to 
death  to  find  who  is  his  prisoner." 

He  focussed  his  glasses  again. 

"Two  Europeans !"  he  gasped.  "What  other  man  have  they 
taken  ?  Do  you  know,  Johnson  ?"  He  turned  to  his  second  offi- 
cer. 

"I've  been  looking  at  him  and  I  can't  make  him  out,"  he 
said. 

He  steadied  his  telescope  against  a  stanchion  and  looked 
again. 

"He  is  certainly  a  European,  and  he  is  certainly  not  a  sailor. 
He  is  wearing  a  civilian  overcoat." 

"May  I  look?" 

Assisted  by  the  officer,  the  girl  brought  the  telescope  to  bear 
upon  the  figure  that  was  walking  with  a  white-gowned  Moor. 
Jim  had  disappeared  over  the  crest  of  a  sandhill,  and  these  two 
walked  alone,  the  Moor  gesticulating,  the  other  emphasising 
some  point  with  his  clenched  fist. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  know  him,"  she  said.  "I  never  expected  I  would." 

It  was  a  humiliating  confession  for  her  to  make,  did  she 
fcut  know  it,  for  she  had  once  boasted  that  she  would  know 
Ralph  Hamon  anywhere  and  in  any  garb !  And  it  was  Ralph 
Hamon  who  strode  angrily  side  by  side  with  the  master  of  the 
dhow. 


CHAPTER    L 
The  Play 

RALPH  HAMON,  shivering  in  his  light  suit,  despite  the  heavy 
overcoat  he  wore,  growled  his  imprecations  as  he  toiled  pain- 
fully up  the  steep  slope  of  the  sandhill  and  Arabic  is  a  lan- 
guage which  was  specially  designed  for  cursing. 

"You're  a  fool !"  he  stormed.  "Did  I  not  tell  you  a  hundred 
times  what  to  do  ?" 


THE  PLAY  241 

The  black-bearded  captain  of  the  dhow  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. 

"It  was  the  fault  of  my  officer,  who  now  roasts  in  hell,  for 
I  told  him  first  to  silence  all  the  members  of  the  crew  that  were 
left  on  board,  but  they  forgot  this  sailor  with  a  pistol." 

"Why  didn't  you  knock  him  on  the  head  ?  Why  did  you  bring 
him  on  board  ?"  growled  Hamon. 

"Because  the  men  desired  to  settle  with  him  in  their  own 
way.  He  has  killed  Yussef,  whom  the  men  loved.  I  think  he 
will  be  sorry  he  did  not  die,"  said  the  Captain  ominously,  and 
Ralph  Hamon  snorted. 

"What  he  will  be  sorry  for  and  what  he  will  be  happy  about 
doesn't  concern  me,"  he  growled.  "You  had  the  woman  in 
your  hands  and  you  did  not  take  her." 

"If  this  sailor  with  a  pistol "  began  the  Captain  again, 

and  Ralph  Hamon  shouted  him  down. 

"Curse  the  sailor  with  a  pistol !"  he  shouted.  "Do  you  think 
I've  been  lying  ill  in  your  foul  boat  for  two  days  in  order  to 
capture  a  sailor  ?" 

"If  you  will  see  him "  pleaded  the  Moor. 

"I  don't  want  to  see  him,  and  I  don't  want  him  to  see  me. 
If  you  allowed  the  woman  to  escape,  you  are  fools  enough  to 
let  him  go  also.  And  do  you  think  I  want  him  to  carry  the  news 
to  Tangier  that  I  was  with  you  on  your  dhow  ?  Do  what  you 
like  with  him." 

He  saw  the  prisoner  at  a  distance — a  tall  man  whose  face 
was  unrecognisable  under  the  mask  of  grime  and  blood,  but 
he  did  not  venture  near  to  him.  Mules  were  waiting  for  them 
at  a  little  village  and  at  the  sight  of  one,  more  richly  caparisoned 
than  the  rest,  with  a  saddle  of  soft  red  leather,  and  tinkling  bells 
about  its  neck,  Ralph  Hamon  bit  his  lip  until  the  blood  came. 
It  was  the  palfrey  that  he  had  designed  for  the  girl. 

With  no  delay  the  party  mounted  and  soon  a  string  of  a 
dozen  mules  was  crossing  the  wild  land.  They  halted  for  two 
hours  in  the  afternoon  and  resumed  the  journey,  halting  for 
the  night  in  the  vicinity  of  a  little  village  of  charcoal  burners. 

"You  will  not  come  to  the  play?"  said  the  Captain  inter- 


242  THE  BLACK 

relatively.  "This  man  is  of  your  race  and  it  would  give  you 
tmhappiness  to  see  them  whip  him." 

"It  would  not  make  me  unhappy  at  all,"  said  Ralph  savagely, 
"but  I'm  tired." 

They  pitched  a  tent  for  him  next  to  the  chief,  and  he  was  on 
the  point  of  retiring,  though  the  sun  had  scarcely  touched  the 
western  horizon,  when  a  diversion  came.  There  was  an  excited 
stir  amongst  the  men  of  the  caravan ;  the  drone  of  conversa- 
tion rose  to  a  higher  pitch  and  he  enquired  the  cause. 

"El  Zafouri,"  was  the  laconic  answer. 

Ralph  knew  the  name  of  this  insurgent  chief,  though  he  had 
never  met  him. 

"Is  he  here?" 

"He  is  coming,"  said  the  other  indifferently,  "but  I  am  a  good 
friend  of  his  and  there  is  nothing  to  fear." 

A  cloud  of  dust  on  the  hill-road  was  evidence  of  the  size  and 
importance  of  El  Zafouri's  retinue;  and  when,  half-an-hour 
later,  he  pitched  his  camp  near  by,  Ralph  Hamon  was  glad  in 
his  heart  that  the  rebel  was  likely  to  prove  a  friend. 

He  went  in  person  to  greet  the  notorious  shereef ,  and  found 
him  sitting  before  his  tent,  a  squat  and  burly  man,  distinctly 
negroid  of  countenance,  and  black. 

"Peace  on  your  house,  Zafouri !"  he  said  conventionally. 

"And  on  you  peace,"  said  Zafouri,  looking  up  straightly  at 
the  stranger.  "I  think  I  know  you.  You  are  Hamon." 

"That  is  my  name,"  said  Ralph,  gratified  that  his  fame  had 
extended  so  far. 

"You  are  a  friend  of  the  Shereef  Sadi  Hafiz?" 

Here  Ralph  Hamon  was  on  more  delicate  ground.  So  rap- 
idly did  Sadi  change  his  friendships  and  his  allegiances  that, 
for  all  he  knew,  he  might  at  the  moment  be  a  deadly  enemy  of 
the  man  who  was  watching  him. 

"Sadi  is  my  agent,"  he  said  carefully,  "but  who  knows 
whether  he  is  my  man  now  ?  For  Sadi  is  a  man  who  serves  the 
sun  that  shines." 

He  was  perfectly  safe  in  saying  this,  for  the  reputation  of 
Sadi  Hafiz  was  common  property  and  he  was  secretly  relieved 
to  see  the  twinkle  that  came  in  Zafouri's  dark  eyes. 


THE  PLAY  243 

"That  is  true,"  he  said.  "Where  are  you  going,  hajf"  He 
addressed  the  captain  of  the  dhow,  who  had  stood  by  Ralph 
during  tfce  interview. 

"To  the  Rifi  Hills,  Shereef,"  he  said  and  the  little  Moor 
stroked  his  chin. 

"You  are  coming  the  longest  way,"  he  said  significantly. 
"You  have  a  prisoner  ?" 

The  dhow  captain  nodded. 

"My  men  told  me  of  him.  He  dies,  they  say?  Well,  that  is 
best  for  him  and  for  all.  When  a  man  is  asleep  he  harms  no- 
body and  is  happy.  I  will  come  to  your  play." 

Ralph  would  have  been  present,  but  nature  forbade  the  ex- 
ertion. For  forty-eight  hours  he  had  been  without  sleep,  and  no 
sooner  had  he  lain  on  the  matting  that  his  servant  had  spread 
for  him  in  the  tent,  than  he  was  asleep. 

The  play  had  been  fixed  for  an  hour  after  sunset,  and  it  was 
of  a  kind  that  was  novel  to  Zafouri.  Two  lines  of  men  arranged 
themselves  at  a  few  paces'  interval,  leaving  a  narrow  lane 
through  which  the  prisoner  was  to  pass,  ostensibly  to  safety, 
for,  if  he  reached  the  end  of  the  lane  and  was  sufficiently  agile 
to  escape  the  two  swordsmen  placed  there  to  give  him  his  qui- 
etus, he  was  free.  It  was  the  old,  bad  punishment  of  running 
the  gauntlet,  and  Jim,  who  in  his  experience  had  heard  of  this 
method  of  settling  accounts  with  malefactors  and  political  ene- 
mies, faced  the  certainty  that,  swift  as  he  might  run,  he  could 
not  hope  to  survive  the  hail  of  blows  which  would  fall  on  him, 
for  each  man  in  the  two  lines  was  armed  with  a  wooden  stave. 

His  captors  brought  him  fruit  and  water. 

"Be  swift  and  you  will  be  happy,"  said  one  with  a  chuckle, 
and  was  taken  aback  when  Jim  answered  in  the  Moorish  Arabic 
quoting  a  familiar  tag. 

"Justice  is  faster  than  birds  and  more  terrible  than  lions." 

"Oh !"  said  his  gaoler  in  surprise.  "You  speak  the  language 
of  God!  Now,  friend,  speak  well  for  me  to  the  djinn,  for  to- 
night you  will  live  amongst  ghosts !" 

They  brought  him  out  for  the  final  condemnation  and  the 
dhow  captain,  sguatting  in  state  on  a  silken  carpet,  gave  judg- 
ment 


244  THE  BLACK 

"Death  for  Death.  Who  kills  shall  be  killed,"  he  recited  in  a 
monotonous  sing-song. 

"Remember  that,  man,"  said  Jim  sternly,  and  Zafouri,  who 
shared  the  silken  carpet  with  his  host,  shot  a  quick  glance  at  the 
bearded  prisoner. 

They  brought  the  Captain  a  glass  of  water  and  he  cere- 
moniously washed  his  hands  of  the  prisoner. 

"Listen,  man  without  a  name,"  said  Jim  in  fluent  Arabic. 
"If  I  die,  people  will  talk  and  the  consequence  will  come  to  you 
wherever  you  are,  and  you  will  hand  in  the  sok,  and  your  soul 
will  go  down  to  Gehenna  and  meet  my  soul " 

"Take  him  away,"  said  the  Captain  huskily. 

"Let  him  stay." 

It  was  Zafouri  who  spoke. 

"Peace  on  you,  Milaka."  It  was  the  old  Moorish  name  foi 
him  and  Jim's  eyes  kindled. 

"And  on  you  peace,  Zafouri,"  said  Jim,  recognising  the  man. 

And  then  Zafouri  drew  his  squat  bulk  erect,  and,  putting  his 
arms  about  the  prisoner,  kissed  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"If  any  man  says  death  to  my  friend,  let  him  say  it  now,"  he 
said,  and  his  left  hand  dosed  over  the  hilt  of  his  curved  sword 

The  Captain  did  not  speak. 


CHAPTER   LI 

The  Courtyard 

TANGIER  lay  bathed  in  the  early  morning  sunlight,  a  vast  mo- 
saic of  white  and  green,  and  Joan  Carston  gazed  spellbound  at 
the  beauty  of  the  city  as  the  yacht  moved  slowly  into  the  bay. 
Overhead  was  a  cloudless  blue  sky ;  and  a  shore  wind  brought 
in  its  lap  a  faint,  pungent  and  yet  indescribable  aroma. 

"That  is  the  East,"  sniffed  Lord  Creith. 

Joan  had  thrown  off  the  effects  of  her  terrible  experience, 


THE  COURTYARD  245 

but  the  change  which  Lord  Creith  had  noticed  in  her  before 
they  had  left  England  was  more  marked  than  ever. 

"Do  you  feel  equal  to  going  ashore  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"You're  a  wonderful  girl,  Joan,"  he  said  admiringly.  "You 
have  had  more  knock-down  blows  in  the  past  few  weeks  than 
come  to  most  people  in  the  course  of  their  lives." 

She  laughed. 

"You  can  become  inured  even  to  knock-down  blows.  I  think 
it  would  take  a  human  earthquake  to  disturb  me  now." 

He  shot  a  furtive  glance  in  her  direction. 

"You're  not  worrying  any  more  about — about  Morlake?" 

She  seemed  to  be  examining  her  own  mind  before  she  re- 
plied. 

"It  is  difficult  to  tell  how  I  feel.  I  have  such  faith  in  him  and 
this  feeling — that  if  anything  terrible  had  happened  I  should 
.know." 

Lord  Creith  was  only  too  happy  to  agree.  He  had  a  weak- 
ness for  agreeing  to  all  cheerful,  and  for  dissenting  violently 
from  all  dismal,  predictions. 

"The  Captain  says  he  has  arranged  to  stay  here  a  week  and  I 
think  we  can  well  afford  the  time." 

He  had  booked  rooms  at  the  big  white  hotel  that  overlooked 
the  beach  and,  later  in  the  day,  from  the  broad  terrace,  she 
could  gaze  in  wonder  at  the  confused  jumble  of  buildings, 
which  made  modern  Tangier. 

"Rather  like  the  Old  Testament  lit  by  electricity,"  said  his 
lordship.  "I  don't  know  whether  I've  read  that  or  whether 
I've  invented  it.  If  I've  invented  it,  it  is  jolly  good.  I  hope 
you're  not  being  disappointed,  Joan.  These  Eastern  cities  are 
never  quite  so  pleasant  near  at  hand  as  they  are  from  three 
miles  out  at  sea.  And  the  smell — phew !"  He  dabbed  his  nose 
with  his  handkerchief  and  pulled  an  unpleasant  face, 

"Jim  lived  here  for  years,"  she  said. 

"Even  that  doesn't  make  it  smell  like  Attar  of  Roses,"  said 
her  practical  father.  "What  was  he  doing  here  ?" 

"Captain  Green  says  he  was  in  the  diplomatic  service.  I  am 
going  to  enquire." 


246  THE  BLACK 

The  next  day  she  threaded  the  tortuous  street  in  which  the 
various  consulates  were  situated.  The  news  she  secured  about 
Jim  Morlake  was,  however,  of.  the  most  fragmentary  charac- 
ter. By  very  reason  of  his  profession,  the  officials  at  the  con- 
sulates and  embassies  were  reticent.  She  was,  however,  able  to 
confirm  the  Captain's  statement,  which  had  been  news  to  her, 
that  for  some  years  Jim  Morlake  had  been  something  of  a 
power  in  this  city.  Lord  Creith  knew  the  British  Minister  and 
they  went  to  tea  at  the  Residency  and  Joan  listened  without 
hearing  to  the  talk  of  concessions,  of  representations,  of  the 
enormities  of  the  sanitary  council  and  the  hideous  injustice 
which  was  inflicted  by  the  native  basha  upon  the  unfortunate 
subjects  of  the  Sultan. 

She  did  not  accompany  her  father  in  his  visit  to  the  prison 
and  she  was  glad  afterwards,  when  he  brought  back  a  highly 
coloured  narrative  of  his  experience. 

"A  hell  upon  earth,"  he  described  it  tersely,  and  she  felt  a 
little  sinking  of  heart.  If  the  method  of  the  Kasbah  was  the 
standard  of  the  Moorish  treatment  of  prisoners,  then  it  would 
go  hard  with  Jim. 

It  was  the  third  day  of  their  visit  and  already  Joan  had 
almost  wearied  of  the  town.  She  had  seen  the  great  market- 
place, and  wandered  amidst  the  charcoal  sellers  and  the 
kneeling  camels,  had  watched  the  native  jugglers  and  the  pro- 
fessional holy  men,  and  chaffered  with  the  sellers  of  brass  in 
the  bazaar. 

"The  prettiest  part  of  Tangier  one  doesn't  see.  Do  you  re- 
member that  ugly  street  we  passed  through  at  the  back  of  the 
mosque?"  she  asked.  "A  very  old  door  opened  and  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  most  gorgeous  garden  and  there  were  two 
veiled  women  on  a  balcony,  feeding  the  pigeons.  It  was  so 
lovely  a  picture  that  I  nearly  went  in." 

Lord  Creith  said  something  about  the  insanitary  conditions 
of  the  houses  and  went  on  to  discuss  the  hotel  bill.  That  after- 
noon, they  walked  up  the  hill  to  see  a  gun  play.  A  number  of 
tribesmen  had  come  in  from  the  hills  to  celebrate  the  anniver- 
sary of  a  local  saint's  death  and  at  her  request  he  turned  aside 
from  the  market  place  to  show  her  the  exterior  of  the  prison. 


THE  COURTYARD  247 

She  shuddered  as  a  horrible  face  leered  out  at  her  from  behind 
the  bars. 

"Do  you  want  to  have  a  look  inside  ?" 

"No  thank  you,  Daddy,"  she  said  hastily,  and  they  turned 
their  steps  toward  the  bazaar. 

Lord  Creith  opened  his  lawn  umbrella  and  put  it  up,  for  the 
sun's  rays  were  unpleasantly  hot. 

"East  is  East  and  West  is  West,"  he  chanted.  "What  alwaye 
interests  me  about  these  fellows  is,  what  are  they  thinking 
about  ?  You  don't  really  get  into  the  East  until  you  understand 
its  psychology." 

The  girl,  who  had  been  walking  behind  him,  did  not  answer, 
but  he  was  used  to  that. 

"Now,  if  you  were  to  ask  me "  he  began  and  turned  his 

head  to  emphasise  his  remarks. 

Joan  was  not  there ! 

He  strode  back  along  the  street.  A  begging  man  stood  at  the 
corner  of  a  court,  demanding  alms  in  the  name  of  Allah ;  ?. 
stout  veiled  woman  was  waddling  away  from  him  carrying  3 
basket  of  native  work;  but  there  was  no  sign  of  Joan.  He 
looked  up  at  the  high  walls  on  either  side,  as  though  he  ex- 
pected to  find  her  perched  miraculously  on  the  top. 

And  then  the  seriousness  of  possibilities  struck  him  and  he 
ran  along  the  uneven  cobbled  street  to  the  end.  He  looked  left 
and  right,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  Joan.  In  one  street  he  saw 
four  men  carrying  a  wooden  case,  chanting  as  they  went,  and 
he  came  back  to  the  beggar  and  was  about  to  ask  him  if  he  had 
seen  a  lady,  when  he  saw  that  the  man  had  been  blinded. 

"Joan !"  he  roared. 

There  was  no  answer.  A  man  who  was  asleep  in  the  shadow 
of  a  doorway  woke  with  a  start,  stared  at  the  pallid  old  man, 
then,  cursing  all  foreigners  who  disturb  the  rest  of  the  faithful, 
curled  up  and  went  to  sleep  again. 

Lord  Creith  saw  in  the  distance  a  French  officer  of  gen- 
darmes and  ran  up  to  him. 

"Have  you  seen  a  European  lady — my  daughter ?"  he 

began  incoherently. 

Rapidly  he  told  the  story  of  the  girl's  disappearance. 


248  THE  BLACK 

"Probably  she  has  gone  into  one  of  the  houses.  Have  yofl 
any  Moorish  friends  ?"  asked  the  officer. 

"None,"  said  Lord  Creith  emphatically. 

"Where  was  she  when  you  saw  her  last  ?"  and  Lord  Creith 
pointed. 

"There  is  a  short  cut  to  the  sok  near  here,"  suggested  the  offi 
cer  and  led  the  way. 

But  Joan  was  not  in  the  big  market  place  and  Lord  Creith 
hurried  back  to  the  hotel.  The  lady  had  not  returned,  the  man- 
ager told  him.  She  was  not  on  the  terrace.  The  only  person  on 
the  terrace  was  a  tall  man  in  grey,  who  was  fanning  himself 
gently  with  his  broad-brimmed  sombrero. 

He  looked  round  at  the  sound  of  Lord  Creith's  voice  and 
jumping  to  his  feet,  hurried  toward  him. 

"Morlake!"  gasped  Creith.  "Joan  .  .  .    !" 

"What  has  happened  to  her  ?"  asked  Jim  quickly. 

"She  has  disappeared !  My  God,  I'm  afraid — I'm  afraid !" 


CHAPTER   LII 

The  House  of  Sadi 

JIM  had  a  brief  consultation  with  the  chief  of  police  before 
Lord  Creith  guided  him  to  the  spot  where  Joan  had  disap- 
peared. 

"I  thought  it  was  here !" 

He  said  something  in  a  low  voice  to  the  police  chief  and  Lord 
Creith  saw  the  officer  shake  his  head  and  heard  him  say : 

"I  can't  help  you  there.  It  may  lead  to  serious  trouble  for 
me.  The  only  thing  I  can  do  is  to  be  on  hand  if  you  want  me." 

"That  will  do,"  said  Jim. 

There  was  a  small  door  in  the  wall  and  to  this  he  went  and 
knocked.  After  a  time  the  wicket  opened  and  a  black  face  ap- 
peared in  the  opening. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SADI  249 

"The  Shereef  is  not  in  the  house,"  said  the  slave  in  guttural 
accents. 

Jim  looked  round.  The  police  officer  had  withdrawn  to  a  dis- 
creet distance. 

"Open  the  door,  my  rose  of  Sharon,"  he  breathed.  "I  am 
from  the  basha,  with  news  for  the  Shereef." 

The  woman  hesitated  and  shook  her  head. 

"I  must  not  open,"  she  said,  but  there  was  an  indecision  in 
her  tone  of  which  Jim  took  immediate  advantage. 

"This  message  is  from  Hamon,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Go 
to  the  Shereef  and  tell  him." 

The  wicket  closed.  Jim  glanced  round  at  the  troubled  Lord 
Creith. 

"You  had  better  join  our  friend,"  he  said  under  his  breath. 

"But  if  she  is  there,  I  can  insist " 

Jim  shook  his  head. 

"The  only  form  of  insistence  is  the  one  I  shall  employ,"  he 
said  grimly.  "You  would  help  me  greatly,  Lord  Creith,  if  you 
did  not  interfere." 

Soon  after  his  lordship  had  walked  reluctantly  to  the  un- 
happy police  chief,  Jim  heard  the  sound  of  bolts  being  drawn, 
a  key  squeaked  in  the  rusty  lock,  and  the  gate  was  opened  a  few 
inches  to  admit  him  to  a  familiar  quadrangle.  He  glanced  at  the 
ancient  fountain,  and  the  untidy  verandah  and  its  faded  chairs, 
and  then,  as  a  man  appeared  in  the  doorway,  he  walked  swiftly 
across  the  untidy  space  and  went  up  the  steps  of  the  verandah  in 
one  bound. 

"Sadi  Hafiz,  I  want  you,"  he  said,  and  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice  the  man  started  back. 

"God  of  Gods !"  he  gasped.  "I  did  not  know  that  you  were  in 
Tangier,  Milaka!" 

It  seemed  that  his  pale  face  had  gone  a  shade  whiter. 

"Now  what  can  I  do  for  you,  my  dear  Captain  Morlake?" 
he  said  in  his  excellent  English.  "Really  this  is  a  surprise — a 
pleasant  surprise.  Why  did  you  not  send  your  name " 

"Because  you  would  not  have  admitted  me,"  said  Jim. 
"Where  is  Lady  Joan  Carston  ?" 

The  man's  face  was  a  blank. 


250  THE  BLACK 

"Lady  Joan  Carston?  I  don't  seem  to  remember  that  name," 
he  said.  "Is  she  a  lady  at  the  British  Embassy?" 

"Where  is  the  girl  who  was  lured  into  this  place  half-an-hour 
ago?"  asked  Jim.  "And  I  warn  you,  Sadi  Hafiz,  that  I  will  not 
leave  this  house  without  her." 

"As  God  lives,"  protested  the  fat  man  vigorously,  "I  do  not 
know  the  lady  and  I  have  not  seen  her.  Why  should  she  be  here, 
in  my  poor  house,  for  she  is  evidently  of  the  English  nobility." 

"Where  is  Lady  Joan  Carston?"  asked  Jim  deliberately. 
"By  God,  you  had  better  answer  me,  Sadi,  or  there  will  be  a 
dead  man  for  me  to  explain." 

He  jerked  his  gun  from  his  pocket,  and  the  gleam  of  it 
seemed  to  blind  the  Moor,  for  he  half  closed  his  eyes  and 
blinked. 

"This  is  an  outrage,"  he  said,  and,  as  he  grew  more  and  more 
excited,  his  English  suffered.  "I  will  report  this  matter  to  the 
Consulate " 

Jim  pushed  him  aside  and  strode  into  the  flagged  hall.  A  door 
was  on  the  left;  he  kicked  it  open.  It  was  evidently  Sadi's 
smoking-room,  for  it  reeked  with  a  scent  of  hashish  and  to- 
bacco. At  one  end  was  an  iron  circular  staircase  leading  to  an 
upper  floor,  an  incongruous  object  in  that  primitive  Oriental 
setting.  Without  hesitation  he  flew  up  the  stairs,  and,  with  a 
scream,  a  girl  who  was  lolling  on  a  lounge  jumped  up  and 
pulled  her  veil  across  her  face. 

"Where  is  the  English  lady?"  asked  Jim  quickly. 

"Lord,"  said  the  trembling  girl,  "I  have  seen  no  English 
woman." 

"Who  else  is  here?" 

He  ran  across  the  half -darkened  room,  pulling  aside  the 
curtains  of  its  three  sleeping  places,  but  Joan  was  not  there.  He 
came  down  the  stairs  to  confront  the  outraged  Sadi  Hafiz. 

Jim  knew  what  was  going  to  happen  before  Sadi  fired,  for 
he  had  committed  the  unpardonable  sin  of  invading  the 
women's  apartments  of  an  Oriental  magnate. 

"Drop  your  gun,  Sadi,"  he  said  sternly,  "or  you  die.  I've 
got  you  covered/' 

Sadi  fired  at  the  place  where  Jim  had  disappeared,  and  then, 


THE  HOUSE  OF  SADI  251 

unexpectedly,  the  intruder  came  into  view  from  behind  a  pillar, 
and  Sadi  put  up  his  hands.  In  another  instant  Jim  was  upon 
him  and  had  snatched  his  pistol  away. 

"Now,"  he  said,  breathing  through  his  nose.  "Where  is  Joan 
Carston?" 

"I  tell  you  I  don't  know." 

Outside  the  door  was  a  small  knot  of  frightened  servants, 
and  Jim  slammed  the  heavy  open  doors  into  their  place  and  shot 
the  bars. 

"Where  is  Joan  Carston  ?' 

"She's  gone,"  said  the  man  sullenly. 

"You  lie.  She  hasn't  had  time  to  go." 

"She  was  here  only  for  a  minute,  then  she  went  into  the 
Street  of  the  School — there  is  another  door  in  the  yard." 

"With  whom?" 

"I  don't  know,"  was  the  defiant  reply. 

Jim  towered  over  him,  his  hands  on  his  hips,  his  eyes 
scarcely  visible. 

"Sadi,"  he  said  softly,  "do  you  know  Zaf ouri  ?  Last  night  he 
told  me  that  he  will  have  your  head  because  you  betrayed  him 
to  the  Government,  took  money  from  him  to  buy  rifles,  and 
used  it  for  yourself.  I  will  save  your  life." 

"I  have  been  threatened  before,  Mr.  Morlake,"  said  Sadi 
Hafiz,  recovering  a  little  of  his  audacity,  "and  what  has  hap- 
pened? I  am  still  alive.  I  tell  you  I  know  nothing  about  this 
lady." 

"You  told  me  just  now  she  was  in  the  courtyard  and  had 
been  taken  out  of  the  door  into  the  Street  of  the  Schools.  Who 
took  her?" 

"As  Allah  lives,  I  do  not  know,"  cried  the  man  in  Arabic, 
and  Jim  struck  him  across  the  face  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"You  will  keep,  Sadi  Hafiz." 

Jim  turned  as  he  unbarred  the  doors  and  flung  them  open, 
and  he  pointed  to  his  throat  with  a  long  forefinger. 

"Zafouri  will  get  you — that  is  certain.  But  more  certain  than 
that  is,  that,  if  any  harm  comes  to  this  lady,  I  will  find  you  and 
kill  you  inch  by  inch." 


252  THE  BLACK 

He  slammed  the  doors  behind  him  and  strode  out  of  the 
house  and  into  the  courtyard. 

A  brief  examination  showed  him  that  the  man  had  spoken 
the  truth  to  this  extent,  that  there  was  another  door  leading  to 
the  narrow  street  which  Lord  Creith  had  searched. 

And  then  he  remembered  that  Joan's  father  had  seen  four 
men  carrying  a  heavy  case.  He  strode  into  the  street  and  beck- 
oned the  policeman. 

"I  want  your  people  to  trace  four  men  who  were  carrying  a 
heavy  case  up  the  Street  of  The  Schools.  They  must  have 
crossed  the  sok." 

The  movements  of  the  party  were  easy  to  follow.  A  native 
policeman  had  seen  them  crossing  to  the  Fez  Road  and  load 
the  case  upon  a  light  car  which  had  been  waiting  there  all  the 
morning.  A  camel  driver,  who  had  been  resting  by  the  side  of 
the  road  near  the  car,  confirmed  this,  and  said  that  something 
inside  the  DOX  had  moved,  and  he  had  asked  the  man  in  charge 
of  the  carrying  party  what  it  was,  and  had  been  told  it  was  a 
crate  of  chickens. 

"Wait  here,"  said  Jim. 

He  ran  back  through  the  crowd  that  had  gathered  in  the  mar- 
ket, and  disappeared  in  their  midst.  Ten  minutes  later  Lord 
Creith  saw  a  big  car  come  flying  along  the  road,  and  Jim  was 
at  the  wheel. 

"I  found  it  outside  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre,"  he  said  breath- 
lessly. "God  knows  who  is  the  owner." 

Lord  Creith  jumped  into  the  car. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  come  with  you,"  said  the  police  officer, 
who  was  a  Frenchman  and  regarded  all  regulations  as  inelastic. 
"Beyond  here  is  outside  my  jurisdiction." 

Jim  nodded  curtly  and  sent  the  car  flying  along  the  Fez 
Road.  The  tracks  of  the  motor-van  were  visible  for  a  long  way, 
but  ten  miles  out  of  Tangier  .  .  . 

"There's  the  car !"  said  Jim. 

It  was  abandoned  by  the  side  of  the  road,  and  the  case  was 
still  intact.  Suppose  he  were  wrong,  and  they  were  on  the  wrong 
track  ?  His  heart  grew  heavy  at  the  thought. 

He  pulled  the  car  up  at  the  tail  of  the  trolley  and  leapt  on  to 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  HOLLOW          253 

the  float.  And  then  he  saw  that  the  box  was  empty,  the  lid  hav- 
ing been  thrown  into  the  undergrowth  on  the  side  of  the  road. 

Not  wholly  empty,  for  in  the  bottom  lay  a  little  white  shoe, 
and,  as  he  lifted  it  out,  Lord  Creith  groaned. 

"That  was  Joan's,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER   LIII 
The  House  in  the  Hollow 

JOAN  CARSTON  was  sauntering  behind  her  father,  and  had  come 
opposite  to  the  door  in  the  wall,  when  it  opened  and  she  paused 
to  look  into  the  courtyard.  The  first  view  was  disappointing, 
but  the  smiling  black  woman  who  held  the  door  invitingly  open 
pointed,  as  though  it  was  something  worth  seeing,  and  Joan, 
her  curiosity  aroused,  stepped  through  the  doorway.  Instantly 
ihe  door  was  slammed  behind  her,  a  big,  black  hand  covered  her 
taouth,  and  she  was  drawn  backward  against  the  gate-woman, 
who  whispered  something  fiercely  in  her  ear.  It  was  unintelligi- 
ble, but  there  was  no  mistaking  the  threat. 

Before  she  realised  what  had  happened,  four  men,  who  had 
appeared  from  nowhere,  closed  on  her,  and  a  scarf  was  knot- 
ted tightly  round  her  ankles,  a  great  wad  of  cottonwool  was 
thrust  into  her  face,  blinding  and  stifling  her,  and  she  felt  her- 
self lifted  up  from  her  feet. 

She  struggled,  kicking  furiously,  but  it  was  futile  to  strug- 
gle against  those  odds,  and,  her  terror  subsiding,  she  lay  passive 
on  the  stone-flagged  ground  whilst  her  hands  were  bound 
tightly  together.  Then  she  was  lifted  and  she  sniffed  the  scent 
of  clean  wood.  The  wool  was  pulled  from  her  face  and  another 
silken  scarf  bound  tightly  round  her  mouth  by  an  expression- 
less negro,  who  pulled  the  edges  of  the  scarf  away  so  that  she 
could  breathe.  In  another  minute  the  lid  of  the  case  was  fas- 
tened on,  and  she  was  lifted  irregularly  into  the  air.  She  dared 
not  struggle  for  fear  of  throwing  the  bearers  off  their  balance. 


254  THE  BLACK 

The  air  in  the  box  was  stifling :  she  felt  she  would  suffocate 
and  tried  to  raise  the  lid  with  her  head,  but  it  had  been  fastened 
from  the  outside.  For  an  eternity  she  seemed  to  be  swaying 
dizzily  on  the  shoulders  of  the  bearers,  and  then  there  was  a  lit- 
tle bump,  and  the  box  was  slid  on  to  a  flat  surface.  What  it  was 
she  knew,  for  she  could  feel  the  throb  and  pulsation  of  the 
engine  beneath  her.  The  car  moved  on,  gathering  speed,  and 
evidently  the  driver  was  in  a  hurry,  for  he  did  not  slow  even 
over  the  irregular  country  road.  Soon  she  was  aching  in  every 
limb  and  ready  to  swoon. 

She  must  have  lost  consciousness  for  a  while,  for  she  woke 
suddenly  to  find  herself  lying  on  the  side  of  the  road.  The 
trolley  and  the  box  had  disappeared,  and  her  four  captors, 
whose  heads  were  swathed  in  scarves,  were  looking  down  at 
her.  Presently  one  stooped  and  lifted  her  to  her  feet,  saying 
something  in  Arabic  which  she  did  not  understand.  She  shook 
her  head  to  signify  her  ignorance  of  the  language,  and  then  she 
saw  the  waiting  mules.  Carrying  her  in  his  arms,  the  big  negro 
sat  the  girl  on  a  mule,  and  led  it  down  a  steep  slope  at  right 
angles  to  the  road,  his  companions  following. 

Her  head  was  in  a  whirl,  she  was  feeling  dizzy  and  sick.  To 
add  to  her  torment,  her  thirst  was  almost  unbearable,  but  they 
had  not  far  to  go.  She  saw  one  of  the  men,  evidently  the  leader, 
looking  back  anxiously,  and  wondered  what  he  feared.  If  there 
was  a  pursuit  she  must  be  rescued,  and  her  heart  leapt  at  the 
thought.  The  end  of  her  journey,  however,  was  near  at  hand. 
In  a  hollow  was  a  low-roofed  house,  surrounded  by  a  high, 
white  wall,  through  the  low  gate  of  which  the  man  led  her  mule. 

The  courtyard  was  a  blaze  of  autumnal  flowers;  the  in- 
evitable fountain  played  in  the  centre.  She  waited  while  they 
closed  the  gates,  and  then  her  attendant  signalled  her  to  dis- 
mount, and  leading  the  way  to  the  house,  knocked  at  the  door. 
It  was  opened  immediately,  and  he  pushed  her  into  the  hall. 
At  first  it  was  so  dark  that  she  could  see  nothing  and  then  there 
developed  from  the  darkness  the  figure  of  a  Moorish  woman. 
She  was  pretty,  Joan  thought,  in  spite  of  the  unhealthy  pallor 
of  her  complexion.  Guided  by  the  girl  she  passed  through 
another  door  into  a  long  room,  the  floor  of  which  was  covered 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  HOLLOW          253 

with  shabby  rugs,  which,  with  a  divan,  constituted  its  furnish- 
ing. 

Light  was  admitted  from  windows  set  high  up  in  the  wall, 
and  she  recognised  the  plface,  from  the  descriptions  she  had 
read,  as  the  harem  of  a  Moorish  house.  No  other  woman  was 
in  the  room,  and  the  girl  who  had  conducted  her  there  disap- 
peared almost  immediately,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 

Joan  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  settee  and  dropped  her  face 
in  her  hands.  She  must  face  the  danger  bravely,  she  told  herself, 
terrible  as  that  danger  was.  She  had  no  illusions  as  to  what 
these  two  attempts  on  her  liberty  signified.  The  first  had  failed, 
but  now  she  realised,  as  she  had  suspected  all  along,  that  the 
attack  upon  the  yacht  at  Suba  had  been  designed  for  her  cap- 
ture, and  was  not,  as  the  Captain  had  asserted  and  Lord  Creith 
had  believed,  the  haphazard  attack  of  pirates  in  search  of 
treasure. 

The  abduction  had  been  carried  out  so  smoothly  that  it  must 
have  been  planned.  How  did  they  knew  she  would  pass  that 
door  ?  They  must  have  been  waiting  for  days  to  carry  their  plot 
into  execution.  And  who  were  "they"  ? 

Her  head  ached ;  she  felt  at  the  end  of  her  resources ;  and 
then  she  sprang  up  as  the  door  opened  and  a  girl  came  in, 
bearing  a  large  brass  tray  containing  native  bread,  fruit,  and  a 
large  brown  carafe  of  water.  With  this  was  a  chipped  cup. 

"Do  you  speak  English  ?"  asked  Joan. 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  The  prisoner  tried  in  French,  with 
no  better  result. 

"I  can  speak  Spanish  a  little,"  said  the  Moorish  girl,  but 
though  Joan  recognised  the  language,  her  knowledge  was  too 
slight  to  carry  on  a  conversation. 

When  she  had  gone,  Joan  poured  out  a  cupful  of  water  and 
drank  feverishly.  She  regarded  the  food  with  an  air  of  suspi- 
cion, and  then  resolutely  broke  the  bread  and  ate  a  little. 

"Joan  Carston,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head,  "you're  in  a  very 
unhappy  situation.  You  have  been  kidnapped  by  Moors !  That 
sounds  as  though  you're  dreaming,  because  those  things*  do  not 
happen  outside  of  books.  You're  not  dreaming,  Joan  Carston. 
And  you  may  eat  the  food.  I  don't  suppose  they  will  try  to  poi- 


256  THE  BLACK 

son  you — yet!  And  if  they  do,  perhaps  it  will  be  better  for 
you." 

"I  doubt  it,"  said  a  voice  behind  her,  and  she  turned  with  a 
cry. 

A  man  had  come  into  the  room  from  the  far  end,  and  had 
been  watching  her  for  a  long  time  before  he  made  his  presence 
known. 

"You!"  she  said. 

Ralph  Hamon  smiled  crookedly. 

"This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,"  he  said. 

The  appearance  of  the  man  momentarily  stunned  her,  and 
then  there  dawned  slowly  upon  her  the  true  meaning  of  his 
appearance. 

"So  it  was  you  all  the  time  ?"  she  said  slowly.  "And  that  was 
why  you  sent  us  on  this  voyage  ?  You  were  the  other  man,  on 
the  beach  ?  I  ought  to  have  known  that.  Where  is  Jim  Mor- 
lake?" 

She  saw  his  jaw  drop. 

"Jim  Morlake  ?  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  He  is  in  Eng- 
land, I  suppose,  under  arrest  for  murder,  if  there  is  any  justice 
in  the  country.  You  probably  know  that  your  husband  was 
killed  the  night  before  you  left,  and  that  Morlake  shot  him." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  he  was  amazed  to  see  her  smile. 

"You  killed  Farringdon,"  she  said.  "Captain  Welling  told 
me  before  I  left.  Not  in  so  many  words,  but  he  found  your  foot- 
prints on  the  garden  bed." 

If  she  wished  to  frighten  him,  she  had  succeeded.  That  old 
look  she  had  seen  before  came  into  his  grey  face. 

"You're  trying  to  scare  me,"  he  said  huskily. 

"Where  is  Jim  Morlake  ?"  she  asked  again. 

"I  don't  know,  I  tell  you.  Dead,  I  hope,  the  damned  Yan- 
kee crook!" 

"He  is  not  dead,  unless  you  killed  him  when  you  found  you 
had  him  in  your  hands." 

His  blank  astonishment  was  eloquent. 

"In  my  hands?  I  don't  understand  you.  When  was  he  in  my 
hands?" 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  HOLLOW          257 

"He  was  the  sailor  you  took  from  the  yacht,"  she  said ;  "the 
cook." 

"Hell !"  breathed  Hamon,  and  took  a  step  backward.  "You're 
fooling  me.  That  wasn't  Morlake.  It  was  a  sailor — a  cook." 

She  nodded. 

"It  was  Mr.  Morlake.  What  did  you  do  to  him  ?" 

"Damn  him!"  he  snarled.  "That  swine  Zafouri  took  him 

away "  He  stopped  and  changed  his  tone.  "He  is  dead,"  he 

said.  "He  was  executed  by  the  crew  of  the  dhow 

"You're  not  telling  the  truth.  You  told  it  at  first.  Mr.  Mor- 
lake got  away !" 

He  did  not  speak.  Fingering  his  quivering  lips,  he  glared  at 
her. 

"Morlake  here !  He  can't  be  here :  it  is  impossible !"  he  said. 
"You've  invented  that,  Joan.  I  thought  he  was  miles  away.  And 
what  did  Welling  say  ?  That  is  an  invention  too.  What  reason 
had  I  to  shoot  that  soak  ?" 

"Captain  Welling  practically  told  me  that  you  were  the 
murderer,"  said  the  girl  with  calm  malice. 

He  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his  streaming  fore- 
head. 

"I'm  a  murderer,  eh?"  he  said  dully.  "Well,  they  can  only 
hang  me,  whatever  I  do,"  and  his  glance  fell  upon  her.  "I  was 
going  to  tell  you  something,  but  you've  upset  my  programme, 
Joan.  It  is  easy  to  find  out  whether  Morlake  is  in  Tangier." 

"I  didn't  say  he  was  in  Tangier.  I  don't  know  that  he  is,"  she 
said,  and  for  a  second  his  face  cleared. 

"He  will  come  to  Tangier,"  he  said,  frowning  again.  "He  is 
not  likely  to  lose  much  time  if  he  knows  you're  there.  Bit  keen 
on  him,  aren't  you  ?  Lovers !  I  saw  him  kissing  you  in  the  wood. 
I  hope  he  taught  you  how.  Most  of  you  cold  white  women 
haven't  learnt  the  trick." 

He  bit  his  lip,  and  evidently  his  mind  was  elsewhere  than  in 
that  tawdry  room. 

"I'll  soon  find  out  if  he  is  in  Tangier,"  he  said,  and  went  out 
the  way  he  had  come,  through  the  little  door  behind  the  curtain 
which  she  had  overlooked. 


258  THE  BLACK 

A  few  minutes  after  he  had  gone,  the  Moorish  girl  returned, 
and  led  her  to  a  room  at  the  back  of  the  house.  A  brick  bath 
had  been  sunk  in  the  floor,  and  the  girl  signalled  to  her  to 
undress.  Thrown  across  the  back  of  a  rickety  chair,  Joan  saw 
some  garments  which  she  guessed  were  the  costume  of  a  Moor- 
ish woman,  and  at  first  she  refused,  but  the  girl  pointed  signifi- 
cantly at  the  door;  and  guessing  that  if  she  offered  any 
resistance  force  would  be  applied,  Joan  undressed  under  the 
watchful  eye  of  the  girl  and  stepped  down  into  the  bath. 

When  she  came  out  and  was  enveloped  in  the  warm  towel 
that  the  girl  had  put  for  her,  she  saw  that  her  clothes  had  been 
moved. 

"You  want  me  to  wear  these  ?"  she  asked  in  lame  Spanish. 

"Si,  senorita,"  said  the  Moorish  girl,  and  Joan  dressed  her- 
self slowly. 

The  costume  was  curiously  unlike  any  she  had  seen  (and  had 
worn)  at  amateur  theatricals.  There  was  no  tinsel,  no  glitter 
of  sequins  .  .  .  her  first  feeling  was  one  of  comfort.  Only 
one  article  of  her  old  attire  she  was  allowed  to  retain — her 
stockings.  Fortunately,  she  had  not  far  to  walk,  for  she  had 
lost  her  shoe,  and  though  the  stocking  sole  was  brown  with  the 
dust  of  the  Fez  Road,  it  was  not  worn  through.  When  she  had 
finished,  the  girl  led  her  back  to  the  room  where  she  had  first 
been  imprisoned,  and  left  her  there. 

It  was  growing  dark  when  Ralph  Hamon  returned  to  her. 

"Your  unofficial  fiance  is  in  trouble  with  the  Moorish 
authorities,"  he  said,  "but  he  asked  for  it!  A  man  with  his 
knowledge  of  the  country  should  have  thought  twice  before 
attempting  to  raid  the  women's  apartments  of  a  Moorish  noble. 
You  will  be  interested  to  learn  that  he  was  the  gentleman 
who  trailed  you  this  afternoon." 

"Anything  you  tell  me  about  him  interests  me,"  she  said, 
and  his  scowl  rewarded  her. 

"I  think  you'd  better  get  into  a  new  frame  of  mind,  Joan, 
and  readjust  your  values,"  he  said.  "Big  changes  are  coming 
into  your  life  and  into  mine.'* 

He  seated  himself  beside  her  on  the  settee  and  she  edged 
away  from  him,  and  finally  rose. 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  HOLLOW          259 

"Pm  going  to  enjoy  the  existence  that  I've  always  wanted," 
he  said.  "The  dolce  far  niente  of  Morocco  is  a  real  thing :  in 
Italy  it  is  a  phrase." 

"You  don't  imagine  that  you  are  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
law  ?"  she  asked. 

"The  law !"  he  scoffed.  "There  is  no  law  in  the  hills,  but  the 
law  of  the  rifle  and  the  chieftain  who  happens  to  be  reigning 
in  that  particular  district.  Don't  you  realise  that  there  is  a  man 
in  this  country  called  Raisuli,  who  has  been  the  law  in  his  own 
province  for  twenty  years?  My  dear  Joan,"  he  said  blandly, 
"no  country  is  going  to  war  in  order  to  save  you  from  a  little 
inconvenience.  I  am  probably  rendering  you  a  very  great 
service,"  he  went  on.  "You  are  going  to  know  life — the  life  that 
is  worth  the  living." 

"In  what  capacity?"  she  asked,  looking  at  him  gravely. 

"As  my  wife,"  he  replied.  "There  will  be  some  difficulty 
about  marrying  for  a  year  or  two,  but  Moorish  marriages  are 
arranged  much  more  easily.  You  shall  learn  Arabic :  I  will  be 
your  teacher,  and  we  will  read  the  poems  of  Hafiz  together. 
You  will  look  back  pityingly  upon  the  old  Joan  Carston,  and 
wonder  what  attractions  she  found  in  life  that  were  com- 
parable with  the  happiness " 

"You  talk  quite  well,"  she  interrupted  him.  "Nobody  would 
guess  that  a  man  of  your  age,  and  with  your  curious  face, 
would  ever  speak  of  poetry." 

She  looked  down  at  him,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her,  an 
obvious  interest  in  her  eyes. 

"You  are  a  remarkable  man,"  she  said  emphatically.  "I  don't 
know  how  many  murders  you  have  committed,  but  you  have 
certainly  committed  one;  and  probably  the  whole  of  your 
fortune  is  founded  upon  some  horrible  crime  of  that  descrip- 
tion. It  doesn't  seem  possible,  does  it,  that  we  have  that  type 
of  person  living  in  the  twentieth  century?  And  yet  there  must 
be — oh,  a  whole  lot  of  people  who  have  committed  undetected 
murders  for  their  own  profit." 

He  was  speechless  with  fear  and  rage.  This,  to  him,  was  the 
tremendous  fact — that  she  was  presenting  him  as  he  was,  and 
as  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  knew  he  was.  For  a  man  may  lie 


2<5o  THE  BLACK 

to  himself  and  screen  his  own  actions  from  himself ;  so  veil  his 
motives,  and  the  sordidness  of  those  motives,  that,  when  they 
are  faithfully  described,  he  stands  aghast  at  the  revelation. 

"I  am  not  a  murderer,"  he  croaked,  his  face  working  con- 
vulsively, "I'm  not  a  murderer,  do  you  hear?  I — I  am  many 
things,  but  I'm  not  a  murderer." 

"Who  killed  Ferdie  Farringdon?"  she  asked  quietly,  and 
he  screwed  up  his  eyes  with  an  expression  of  pain. 

"I  don't  know — I  did,  perhaps.  I  didn't  mean  to  kill  him 
...  I  meant  to — I  don't  know  what  I  meant.  I  thought  I'd  get 
Morlake.  I  drove  my  machine  to  within  three  miles  of  the  vil- 
lage and  came  the  rest  of  the  journey  on  foot." 

He  covered  his  eyes  with  his  arm  as  though  shutting  out 
some  horrible  sight. 

"Damn  you,  how  dare  you  say  these  things?"  he  nearly 
sobbed  in  his  rage.  "I'll  make  you  so  interested  in  yourself  that 
you  won't  talk  about  me,  Joan,  understand  that !" 

He  was  about  to  say  something  else,  but  changed  his  mind, 
and,  turning,  walked  quickly  out  of  the  room.  She  did  not  see 
him  again  that  night,  but  just  as  she  was  dozing  on  the  divan, 
she  heard  the  door  open  and  sitting  up,  saw  the  Moorish  girl 
carrying  a  long  blue  cloak  over  her  arm.  Without  a  word  she 
put  it  about  Joan's  shoulders,  and  she  knew  that  the  second 
stage  of  her  journey  had  begun. 

Whither  would  it  lead?  In  her  faith  that  it  would  lead  to 
Jim  Morlake,  she  went  out,  impatient  to  resume  the  journey. 


CHAPTER    LIV 

A  Visit  to  the  Basha 

HAMON  had  spoken  no  more  than  the  truth  when  he  had  said 
that  Jim  was  in  serious  trouble  with  the  authorities.  But  it  was 
that  kind  of  serious  trouble  which  he  could  handle.  The  basha 
of  Tangier,  governor  and  overlord  of  the  faithful,  was  at  cof- 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  BASHA  261 

fee  when  Jim  was  announced  by  the  great  man's  majordomo. 
The  basha  pulled  his  beard  and  frowned  horribly. 

"Tell  the  Excellency  that  I  cannot  see  him.  There  has  been 
a  complaint  by  the  Shereef  Sadi  Hafiz  which  must  go  before 
the  Consulate  Board  to-morrow." 

The  servant  disappeared,  to  return  almost  immediately. 

"Lord,"  he  said,  "Morlaki  sends  you  one  word  and  waits 
your  answer." 

"You're  a  fool,"  said  the  basha  angrily.  "I  tell  you  I  will  not 
see  him.  What  is  the  word  ?" 

"The  word,  Lord,  is  'sugar.'  " 

It  was  an  innocent  enough  word,  but  the  official's  hand  came 
straight  to  his  beard  and  plucked  at  it  nervously. 

"Bring  him  to  me,"  he  said  after  a  while,  and  Jim  came  into 
the  presence  unabashed. 

"Peace  on  your  house,  Tewfik  Pasha !"  he  said. 

"And  on  you  peace !"  gabbled  the  other,  and,  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand,  dismissed  the  servant  from  the  room.  "Now  I  tell  you, 
Excellency,  that  there  is  serious  trouble  in  Tangier.  The  She- 
reef  Sadi  Hafiz  has  brought  charges  against  you  of  breaking 
into" — he  lowered  his  voice  fearfully — "his  harem." 

"O  la  la !"  said  Jim  contemptuously.  "Do  I  come  here  to  talk 
of  harems,  Tewfik?  I  come  here  to  talk  sugar — great  cases 
of  sugar  that  came  to  you  in  the  spring  of  the  year  of  the  rising, 
and  in  those  cases  of  sugar  were  rifles,  which  went  out  to  the 
pretender." 

"God  give  you  grace !"  groaned  the  basha.  "What  can  I  do? 
If  Sadi  makes  a  complaint  I  must  listen  to  him,  or  my  authority 
is  gone.  As  to  the  sugar " 

"We  will  not  talk  about  sugar,"  said  Jim,  sitting  down  on  a 
cushion  in  front  of  the  basha' s  divan.  "We  will  talk  about  a 
lady  who  has  been  taken  from  this  town  through  the  agency  of 
Sadi  Hafiz." 

"If  you  can  prove  this " 

"What  proof  is  there  in  Tangier?"  said  Jim  scornfully. 
"Where  you  may  buy  a  thousand  witnesses  for  ten  pesetas  on 
either  side!  You  know  Sadi,  Tewfik:  he  has  been  your 
enemy " 


262  THE  BLACK 

"He  has  also  been  my  friend,"  said  Tewfik  uneasily. 

"He  is  your  enemy  now.  A  week  ago  he  sent  word  to  the  Sul- 
tan that  you  had  been  plotting  with  the  Spaniards  to  sell  a  rail- 
way concession." 

"May  he  die !"  exploded  the  basha.  "I  did  no  more  than  give 
a  feast  to  a  distinguished  Spanish  Excellency " 

Again  Jim  stopped  him. 

"This  much  I  tell  you,  that  you  may  know  how  you  stand 
with  Sadi.  Now  give  me  authority  to  deal  with  him." 

The  basha  hesitated. 

"He  is  a  very  powerful  man,  and  the  Angera  people  are 
friends  of  his.  They  say  that  he  is  also  a  friend  of  Raisuli, 
though  I  doubt  this,  for  Raisuli  has  no  friends.  If  I  do  not  take 
action " 

"How  can  you  take  action  if  Sadi  Hafiz  is  in  prison  ?"  asked 
Jim  quietly,  and  the  basha  jumped. 

"Prison  ?  Bismallah !  Could  I  put  a  man  of  his  importance 
in  the  kasbahf  You're  mad,  Morlake !  What  crime  ?" 

"Find  me  a  crime  at  the  right  moment,"  said  Jim.  He  took 
from  his  pocket  a  thick  bundle  of  thousand-peseta  notes  and 
threw  them  into  the  lap  of  the  governor  of  Tangier,  "God  give 
you  peace !"  he  said  as  he  rose. 

"And  may  he  give  you  many  happy  dreams!"  replied  the 
basha  mechanically,  as  he  touched  the  notes  lovingly. 

Jim  went  back  to  the  hotel  and  saw  Lord  Creith,  and  for 
once  that  nobleman  did  not  object  to  being  bothered. 

"It  is  going  to  be  difficult  to  search  the  houses  where  she 
may  be  hidden,"  said  Jim.  "I've  got  into  bad  trouble  already. 
The  only  searches  we  can  make  are  purely  unauthorised.  Of 
one  thing  I'm  certain — that  they  have  not  gone  along  the  Fez 
Road.  I've  gone  twenty  miles  beyond  the  place  where  we  found 
the  trolley,  and  nobody  had  seen  such  a  party.  They  must  be  in 
the  vicinity,  and  to-night  I  am  going  out  to  conduct  my  inves- 
tigations alone." 

He  was  impatient  to  be  gone,  the  more  so  as  Lord  Creith  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  accompany  him.  The  old  man  went  up  to  his 
room  to  get  an  authority  he  had  procured  that  afternoon  from 
the  international  consulates,  and  whilst  he  was  waiting  Jint 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  BASHA  263 

stepped  out  on  to  the  balcony.  The  night  was  chill,  but  a  full 
moon  rode  serenely  in  the  unclouded  heavens,  and  he  stood 
spellbound  for  a  moment  by  the  beauty  of  the  scene.  The  broad 
terrace  was  deserted  except  for  one  man  who  sat  with  his  coat 
collar  turned  about  his  ears,  his  feet  raised  to  the  stone  para- 
pet. 

American  or  English,  thought  Jim.  Nobody  else  would  be 
mad  enough  to  risk  the  ills  which  are  supposed  to  attend  the 
night  air. 

The  stranger  was  smoking  a  cigar,  and  Jim  sniffed  its 
fragrance  and  found  it  good,  but  Creith  appeared  at  that  mo- 
ment with  the  authorisation. 

"I'm  afraid  it  is  not  going  to  help  you  much,  Morlake,"  he 
said,  "but  in  such  places  as  acknowledge  the  Sultan  you  will 
find  it  of  assistance  with  the  local  authorities."  He  held  out  his 
hand.  "Good  luck  to  you!"  he  said  simply.  "Bring  back  my 
girl — I  want  her,  and  I  think  you  want  her  too." 

Jim  pressed  the  hand  of  the  old  man  in  his,  his  heart  too  full 
for  words.  Dropping  his  hand  on  Creith's  shoulder,  he  nodded, 
and  then  gently  pushed  him  through  the  glass  door  into  the 
lobby  of  the  hotel.  He  needed  solitude  at  that  moment. 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  his  eyes  on  the  old  man,  as,  with 
bowed  shoulders,  he  walked  up  the  carpeted  corridor ;  then, 
turning  abruptly,  Jim  made  for  the  steps  that  led  to  the  Beach 
Road.  He  was  on  the  point  of  descending  when  a  voice  hailed 
him: 

"Hi !" 

It  was  the  smoker  of  cigars.  Thinking  that  he  had  made  a 
mistake,  he  was  going  on. 

"Hi!  Come  here,  Morlake!" 

Astounded,  he  turned,  and  went  toward  the  lounger. 

"As  you  know  me  well  enough  to  call  me  by  name,  I  feel  no 
diffidence  in  telling  you  that  I'm  in  a  great  hurry,"  he  said. 

"I  suppose  you  are,"  drawled  the  man  on  the  seat,  crossing 
his  legs  comfortably.  "What  I  want  to  know  is  this :  have  you 
seen  anything  of  my  friend  Hamon?" 

Jim  stooped  to  get  a  better  view  of  the  man's  face.  It  was 
Captain  Welling ! 


364  THE  BLACK 


CHAPTER   LV 

The  Lady  from  Lisbon 

"WHAT  on  earth  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"Inviting  an  attack  of  rheumatism,"  grunted  Welling. 
** You're  in  a  hurry :  anything  wrong  ?" 

"Lady  Joan  has  disappeared,"  said  Jim,  and  briefly  told  as 
much  of  the  story  of  the  girl's  abduction  as  he  knew. 

The  old  man  listened  thoughtfully. 

"That  is  bad,"  he  said.  "I  heard  there'd  been  a  shindy  in  the 
town,  but  didn't  get  the  hang  of  it.  My  Spanish  is  very  rusty, 
and  my  Arabic  is  nil.  Not  that  Arabic  is  ever  necessary  to  a 
traveller  in  Morocco,"  he  said.  "Lady  Joan.  By  gosh,  that's 
bad !  Where  are  you  off  to  ?" 

"I'm  going  to  look  for  her,"  said  Jim  briefly. 

"I  won't  stop  you.  No  sign  of  Hamon?" 

Jim  shook  his  head. 

"He  is  in  Morocco,  of  course.  You  know  that?  I  trailed  him 
down  as  far  as  Cadiz.  He  came  across  on  the  Peleago  to  Gib- 
raltar.  There  I  missed  him.  He  flitted  from  Gibraltar,  leav' 
ing  no  trace." 

The  news  took  Jim's  breath  away.  He  had  not  seen  Hamon 
on  the  dhow  or  subsequently,  and  he  made  a  quick  calculation. 

"He  may  have  got  here,"  he  said,  "but  I  haven't  seen  him. 
I've  gone  on  the  supposition  that  Sadi  Hafiz  has  been  respon- 
sible for  all  the  arrangements  made  to  date,  but  it  is  quite  possi- 
ble that  Hamon  is  somewhere  in  the  background,  putting  in  the 
fine  touches." 

He  was  turning  away  when  a  thought  struck  him. 

"I  wish  you'd  go  in  and  see  Lord  Creith.  He  is  rather  under 
the  weather.  He  will  be  able  to  tell  you  what  happened  at 
Suba,"  and,  with  a  hasty  word  of  farewell,  he  ran  down  the 
steps  and  hurried  toward  the  gates  of  the  city. 

Near  the  Street  of  the  Mosque  is  a  small  and  unpretentious 


THE  LADY  FROM  LISBON  265 

house,  the  door  of  which  is  reached  by  a  flight  of  stone  steps 
flush  with  the  house.  He  mounted  the  steps,  knocked  at  the 
door  and  was  instantly  admitted.  Nodding  to  the  Moorish 
tailor  who  sat  cross-legged  at  his  craft,  he  went  into  the  inner 
room,  taking  off  his  coat  as  he  went.  Presently  he  appeared  in 
the  doorway. 

"You  have  made  all  the  arrangements  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  the  tailor,  not  looking  up  from  his  work  or  ceas- 
ing to  ply  his  busy  needle.  "They  will  wait  for  you  on  the  road 
near  the  English  doctor's." 

Jim  was  stripping  off  his  waistcoat  when  he  heard  a  snore 
that  seemed  to  shake  the  ancient  house.  He  looked  up  to  the 
square  opening  against  which  the  top  of  a  worn  ladder  rested. 

"Who  is  there  ?"  he  asked  from  the  doorway. 

The  tailor  threaded  a  needle  near-sightedly,  but  with  ex- 
traordinary quickness,  before  he  answered. 

"A  man  lives  there,"  he  said  unconcernedly.  "He  has  the 
roof  which  the  water-seller  had.  Yassin  the  Jew  could  not  find 
a  tenant  because  the  water-seller  had  smallpox,  so  he  gave  it  to 
the  Inglezi  for  six  pesetas  a  month.  I  pay  fifty,  but  Yassin 
knows  that  I  can  find  no  other  shop,  and  my  fathers  lived  here 
since  the  days  of  Suliman." 

There  was  a  stir  up  above  and  the  sound  of  a  grumbling 
voice. 

"He  smokes,"  said  the  tailor.  "He  will  go  now  to  a  cafe 
where  the  hashish  pipe  costs  ten  centimes." 

Jim  wondered  whether  it  was  the  characteristic  of  all  lodg- 
ers to  be  addicted  to  unnatural  cravings,  and  as  he  wondered, 
a  ragged  shoe  felt  tremulously  for  the  top  rung  of  the  ladder. 
The  ankle  above  the  shoe  was  bare,  the  ragged  trouser  leg 
reached  half-way  down  the  calf.  Slowly  the  man  descended, 
and  Jim  paused,  taking  stock  of  him.  His  hair  was  a  dirty  grey 
and  hung  over  the  collar  of  his  shiny  coat ;  the  nose  thick  and 
red ;  the  mouth  a  slit  that  drooped  at  each  end. 

He  wore  a  stubbly  and  uneven  red  beard  as  though  he  had 
trimmed  it  himself,  and  he  turned  his  pale  blue  eyes  upon  the 
visitor  with  an  insolent  stare. 

"Good  evening,"  he  said  wheezily. 


266  THE  BLACK 

"English  ?"  said  Jim  in  surprise,  and  disgusted  by  the  un- 
wholesome appearance  of  the  man. 

"Britannic— don't  look  so  infernally  sick,  my  good  man. 
Honesta  mors  turpl  vita  potior!  I  can  see  that  noble  sentiment 
in  your  eyes !  By  your  damnable  accent  you  are  either  a  Colon- 
ial or  an  American,  and  what  the  devil  you're  doing  here  I 
don't  know.  Lend  me  five  pesetas,  dear  old  boy ;  I'm  getting  a 
remittance  from  home  to-morrow." 

Jim  dropped  a  Spanish  doura  into  the  outstretched  paw  and 
watched  him  hobble  out  into  the  night. 

"Faugh !"  said  Jim  Morlake.  "How  long  has  he  been  here  ?" 

"Five  years,"  said  the  tailor,  "and  he  owes  me  five  pesetas." 

"What  is  his  name?" 

"I  don't  know — what  does  it  matter  ?" 

Jim  agreed. 

The  dingy  man  had  scarcely  left  the  shop  when  a  woman 
came  slowly  up  the  road,  guided  by  a  native  boy  in  a  narrow 
brown  jellab.  He  carried  a  candle  lantern  in  his  hand,  and  if 
this  method  of  illumination  was  unnecessary  in  the  main 
streets,  it  became  vitally  essential  when  they  struck  the  laby- 
rinth of  narrow  alleys  and  crooked  streets  which  lay  at  the  back 
of  the  post  office. 

Behind  her  a  porter  carried  two  large  grips,  for  Lydia 
Hamon  had  come  ashore  from  the  Portuguese  West  African 
packet  that  occasionally  sets  down  passengers  at  Tangier. 
Presently  they  came  to  the  well-lighted  guests'  entrance  of  the 
Continental  Hotel,  and  she  dismissed  her  guide  and  porter 
and,  after  a  second's  hesitation,  wrote  her  name  in  the  register. 

"There  is  a  letter  for  you,  Miss  Hamon,"  said  the  reception 
clerk,  and  took  down  an  envelope  from  the  rack. 

It  was  in  Ralph's  handwriting,  and  she  dreaded  to  read  the 
message.  In  the  seclusion  of  the  writing-room  she  tore  open  the 
envelope  and  took  out  the  sheet  of  paper  it  contained. 

//  you  get  this  before  registering,  you  had  better  sign  the 
book  by  an  assumed  name  [it  ran].  The  moment  you  arrive, 
come  up  to  the  house  of  Sadi  Hafiz.  I  wish  to  see  you  urgently. 
Under  no  circumstances  will  you  tell  anyhpdy  that  I  am  here. 


THE  LADY  FROM  LISBON  267 

She  read  the  letter  and,  walking  across  to  the  fir^  dropped  it 
into  the  blazing  coal  and  watched  it  till  it  was  consumed.  Then, 
with  a  sigh,  she  went  back  to  the  reception  clerk. 

"I  want  a  boy  to  guide  me  up  to  the  Sok,"  she  said. 

"Has  madam  had  dinner?" 

She  nodded. 

"Yes,  I  dined  on  the  ship." 

He  bustled  out  into  the  street.  Presently  he  returned  with 
a  diminutive  boy,  carrying  a  lantern.  Apparently  the  clerk  had 
told  the  boy  where  she  wanted  to  go,  for  he  asked  no  questions, 
leading  her  back  to  the  little  market  place  where  the  bread 
sellers  sat  like  sheeted  mummies,  a  candle  advertising  their 
wares. 

"I  want  the  house  of  Sadi  Hafiz,"  she  said  when  they  were 
nearing  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  without  a  word  he  turned  off 
and,  coming  to  a  stop  before  the  forbidding  door,  hammered 
with  his  clenched  fists. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  the  call  was  answered. 

"Wait  for  me  here,"  she  said  in  Spanish.  "I  shall  be  re- 
turning." 

He  grunted,  blew  out  his  candle,  being  of  an  economical 
turn  of  mind,  and  squatted  down,  pulling  his  ragged  hood  over 
his  head. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  keeper  of  the  door  scrutinised  her 
for  a  moment  by  the  light  of  her  lantern,  and  then  shuffled  in 
front  of  her  to  the  house.  Before  she  could  reach  the  door, 
Sadi,  resplendent  in  a  blue  silk  robe,  was  coming  down  to  meet 
her. 

"This  is  a  great  honour  you  have  done  to  my  poor  house, 
Miss  Hamon,"  he  said  in  English. 

"Is  Ralph  here?"  she  asked,  cutting  short  the  complimen- 
tary flow. 

"No,  he  has  been  called  out  of  Tangier,  but  I  expect  him 
back  very  soon." 

He  led  her  into  the  room  where  Jim  Morlake  had  searched, 
and  clapped  his  hands  vigorously.  Half-a-dozen  servants  came 
running  to  obey  the  summons. 


268  THE  BLACK 

"Sweetmeats  for  the  lady  and  English  tea,"  he  said.  "Also 
bring  cigarettes,  quickly !" 

The  room  was  very  dimly  illuminated.  One  electric  lamp, 
heavily  shaded  in  a  pseudo-oriental  lantern,  supplied  all  the 
light,  and  more  than  half  of  the  apartment  was  in  shadow. 

"You  will  sit  down  and  refresh  yourself  after  your  long 
journey?"  he  said.  "Your  brother  will  be  with  us  soon." 

"Are  you  sure  he  is  coming?"  she  asked  suspiciously.  "I'm 
not  staying  here — you  understand  that?" 

"Naturally,"  he  said  with  a  touch  of  asperity  in  his  voice. 
"My  wretched  home  is  not  good  enough  for  your  ladyship." 

"It  isn't  that,  only  I  prefer  the  hotel,"  she  said  shortly. 

Was  he  deceiving  her,  she  wondered  ?  And  then  she  caught 
her  breath,  for  she  heard  Ralph's  voice  outside.  She  looked  at 
him  in  amazement.  She  had  never  seen  him  in  Moorish  cos- 
tume before.  He  kicked  off  his  yellow  slippers  and  came  toward 
her,  pulling  back  the  hood  of  his  jellab. 

"You  got  here,  then  ?"  he  said  surlily.  "I  thought  you  were 
arriving  yesterday  ?" 

"We  were  held  up  at  Lisbon.  There  has  been  some  political 
trouble  there.  What  did  you  want  ?"  she  said. 

At  the  last  minute  Ralph  had  changed  his  plans  and  had 
gone  on  ahead  of  her,  leaving  her  to  come  overland  to  Lisbon, 
whilst  he  went  on  to  Gibraltar. 

At  a  signal  from  Hamon,  Sadi  Hafiz  withdrew  noiselessly, 
pulling  the  curtains  to  hide  the  ugliness  of  the  prison-like  door 
before  he  made  his  exit. 

"Lydia,  you've  got  to  know  I'm  in  bad,"  said  Hamon.  "If 
what  this  girl  tells  me  is  true,  I've  made  a  very  bad  mistake." 

"This  girl  ?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"I'm  talking  about  Joan." 

"Joan  ?  Is  she  here  ?  Where  ?" 

"Never  mind  where  she  is — she  is  here." 

"Oh,  yes!"  The  tension  in  her  face  relaxed.  "How  you 
frightened  me,  Ralph !  Of  course,  the  yacht  is  in  the  bay :  they 
pointed  it  out  to  me  as  we  came  in.  You  have  seen  her  ?" 

"She  is  not  on  the  yacht,  if  that  is  what  you  mean,"  said 
Ralph  roughly.  "She  is  in  one  of  Sadi's  houses,  twenty  miles 


THE  LADY  FROM  LISBON  269 

from  here.  She  is  doubly  necessary  to  me  now.  She  is  my  hos- 
tage, for  one  thing.  Morlake  is  in  Tangier." 

She  did  not  speak ;  she  was  staring  wildly  at  him  as  though 
she  could  not  believe  her  ears. 

"You  have  Joan  Carston!  What  do  you  mean — have  you 
taken  her — by  force  ?" 

He  nodded. 

"Oh,  my  God !  Ralph,  are  you  mad  ?" 

"I'm  very  sane,"  said  Hamon.  He  fumbled  in  the  pocket  of 
his  clothes  and,  finding  his  case,  lit  a  cigarette.  "Yes,  I'm  very 
sane." 

"You — you  haven't  hurt  her?" 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  he  said  roughly.  "Why  should  I  hurt  her  ? 
She  is  going  to  be  my  wife." 

"But,  Ralph,  how  can  you  hope  to  escape  punishment  ?"  she 
almost  wailed. 

"It  isn't  so  much  hope  as  knowledge,"  he  said.  "There  is  no 
law  in  Morocco :  fix  that  in  your  mind.  The  country  is  chroni- 
cally at  war,  and  the  European  governments  have  no  more 
power  than  that."  He  snapped  his  finger.  "They're  so  jealous 
that  they  will  not  move  for  fear  of  giving  one  another  an  ad 
vantage.  You  needn't  worry  about  me.  And,  Lydia,  I'm  here 
for  good." 

"In  Morocco?"  she  said  in  horror. 

He  nodded. 

"I'm  friends  with  most  of  the  big  clansmen,"  he  said,  "and 
after  a  while,  when  matters  have  blown  over  and  Joan  has  set- 
tled down  to  the  new  life,  I  might  think  of  moving,  but  for  the 
moment  I'm  here." 

"You  want  me  to  go  back,  of  course?"  she  said  nervously. 
"Somebody  must  settle  your  affairs  in  London." 

"They're  settled,"  he  said.  "I  sold  the  house  before  I  left 
In  fact,  I  sold  everything  except  Creith.  I  want  to  keep  that  for 
my  children." 

"But  I  have  affairs  that  need  settling,  Ralph,"  she  said  des- 
perately "I  can't  stay  here.  I'll  come  back  if  you  wish  me 
. » 

"You  are  not  going,"  he  said.  "Now  listen,  Lydia."  He 


370  THE  BLACK 

sprang  to  her  side  as  she  reeled,  and  shook  her  violently.  "I 
want  none  of  that  nonsense,"  he  growled.  "The  success  of  my 
scheme  depends  on  Sadi  Hafiz.  It  is  absolutely  vital  that  I 
should  retain  his  friendship  and  his  support.  My  life  may  de- 
pend upon  it — get  that !  I  don't  know  how  much  Welling  knows 
and  how  much  was  bluff  on  Joan's  part,  but  if  he  knows  half  as 
much  as  she  says  he  does,  I'm  booked  for  the  drop." 

"You — you  haven't  killed  anybody?"  she  whispered. 

"I've  been  responsible  for  at  least  two  deaths,"  he  said,  and 
she  sank  under  the  shock.  "You've  been  living  your  artistic  life 
in  Paris,  getting  acquainted  with  Count  this  and  Countess  that 
— on  my  money.  Did  it  worry  you  how  it  came,  or  where  I  got 
it  from?  Not  that  I  ever  gained  a  penny  from  Cornford's 
death,"  he  said  moodily,  "but  I  shall — I  shall !  That  is  what  de- 
cided me  to  stay  here.  It  doesn't  matter  what  they  know  then." 

She  got  up  unsteadily. 

"Ralph,  I'm  going  home,"  she  said  ."I  can't  stand  any  more." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  but  he  did  not  take  it,  and  then,  with 
a  little  sigh,  she  walked  to  the  curtains  and  pulled  them  back, 
turning  the  handle  of  the  door.  It  did  not  move. 

"Locked,"  said  her  brother  laconically.  "You're  going  home, 
are  you  ?  Well,  this  is  your  home,  Lydia — this  and  Sadi's  house 
in  the  hills.  I've  made  a  good  match  for  you." 

She  stared  at  him  incredulously. 

"You  mean  .  .  .  you  want  me  to  marry  a  Moor  ?  Ralph,  you 
don't  mean  that  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  what  else  I  mean,"  he  said.  "Lydia, 
you've  got  to  make  the  best  of  things.  This  house  is  rotten,  I 
admit,  but  the  other  place  in  the  hills  is  wonderful.  And  it'll  be 
good  for  Joan  to  have  a  woman  handy  like  you."  He  chuckled. 
"That'll  swamp  a  little  of  her  pride,  having  Sadi  Hafiz  as  a 
brother-in-law." 

The  thought  seemed  to  please  him,  for  he  chuckled. 

She  was  trapped — as  much  trapped  as  Joan  Carston.  She 
knew  that  it  was  useless  to  make  any  appeal  to  him.  Ralph 
Hamon  had  never  shrunk  from  the  sacrifice  of  his  relatives, 
and  would  not  do  so  now. 


THE  LADY  FROM  LISBON  271 

She  was  about  to  speak  when  the  door  was  unlocked  and 
flung  open,  and  Sadi  Hafiz  ran  in. 

"Quick!"  he  cried  earnestly.  "Get  out — through  the  little 
gate !  The  house  is  surrounded  by  the  basha's  soldiers.  They 
may  be  coming  to  arrest  me :  I  shall  know  soon,  but  nothing 
can  happen  to  me.  Take  her  away !" 

Ralph  seized  her  by  the  arm  and  led  her  at  a  run  into  the 
courtyard.  He  seemed  to  know  his  way  without  guidance,  for 
he  came  to  the  little  gate  that  led  to  the  Street  of  Schools.  The 
door  had  already  been  unlocked.  As  they  passed  through,  the 
door  was  slammed  on  them  by  Hafiz  himself,  and  they  were  a 
long  way  from  the  house  before  the  sound  of  the  heavy  knock- 
ing on  the  front  gates  died  away. 

The  sight  of  a  Moorish  man  and  a  European  woman  ex- 
cited no  comment.  Ralph,  his  face  shaded  by  his  hood,  shuffled 
along  by  her  side,  never  once  relaxing  his  hold  of  her  arm.  They 
came  to  the  Sok,  deserted  at  this  hour  of  the  night,  and  she 
turned  instinctively  to  the  hill  which  would  take  her  back  to  the 
Continental. 

"Oh  no,  you  don't,"  he  said  between  his  teeth.  "I  know  a 
little  place  where  you  can  stay  the  night." 

"Ralph,  for  God's  sake  let  me  go !"  she  begged. 

And  then,  out  of  the  shadows,  came  a  man  who  was  wearing 
a  long  fur-lined  coat.  The  collar  was  turned  up  to  his  ears,  and 
between  its  ends  protruded  the  stump  of  a  glowing  cigar. 

"Can  I  be  of  any  assistance,  madam?" 

Ralph  heard  the  voice  and,  dropping  the  girl's  arm,  turned 
and  ran  into  the  night. 

There  were  many  people  he  expected  to  meet  in  Tangier,  but 
Julius  Welling  was  not  one  of  them. 

Hamon  raced  across  the  dark  market  place  and  along  a  nar- 
row, twisting  lane,  hedged  with  cactus,  and  was  slowing  to  a 
walk  when  he  saw  somebody  coming  toward  him  and  stepped 
aside  to  avoid  the  passer.  Unfortunately,  the  unknown  made  a 
similar  movement  and  they  came  into  violent  collision. 

"Curse  you !"  snapped  Ralph  in  English.  "Look  where  you 
are  going!" 


272  THE  BLACK 

He  was  startled  when  the  reply  came  in  the  same  language. 

"Blundering  hound !  Have  you  eyes,  oaf  ?  To  barge  against 
a  gentleman — you're  drunk,  sir !" 

Arrested  by  the  tone  of  the  man's  voice,  Ralph  struck  a 
match  and  nearly  dropped  it  again  when  he  saw  the  blotched 
face  and  the  red  beard. 

"E  tenebris  oritur  lux,"  murmured  the  smoker  of  hashish. 
"Forgive  me  if  my  language  was  a  little  unrefined — =excuse 
me!" 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  searched  the  moonlit  heavens. 

"Would  it  be  too  much  to  ask  you  to  point  out  the  Gemma 
in  the  Constellation  of  Orion?  I  live  somewhere  underneath. 
In  a  foul  den,  sir,  above  a  beastly  Moorish  tailor's  shop.  And 
what  am  I,  dear  friend?  A  gentleman  of  the  cloth!  No  un- 
frocked priest — but  a  gentleman  of  the  cloth — a  reverend  gen- 
tleman !  And  an  officer  holding  the  supreme  decoration  of  the 
world,  the  Victoria  Cross,  sir!  Aylmer  Bernando  Bannock- 
waite,  sir — could  you  of  your  amazing  kindness  lend  me  five 
pesetas  .  .  .  my  remittance  arrives  to-morrow  .  .  ." 

Like  a  man  in  a  dream  Ralph  Hamon  pushed  a  note  into  the 
man's  hand. 

Bannockwaite — the  man  who  had  made  Joan  and  Ferdie 
Farringdon  husband  and  wife ! 


CHAPTER    LVI 

Captain  Welling  Adds  a  Postscript 

AT  THE  corner  of  the  hilly  street,  Julius  Welling  waited  for 
the  girl  to  grow  calmer. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you !"  she  was  sobbing  hysterically.  "Will 
you  please  see  me  to  my  hotel?  I'm  so  grateful !" 

"Was  that  man  molesting  you  ?"  he  asked. 


WELLING  ADDS  A  POSTSCRIPT       273 

"Yes — no — he  was  a  friend.  It  was  my  brother." 

He  stopped  dead. 

"Your  brother?" 

"And  then,  in  the  light  of  a  standard,  she  saw  his  face. 

"Captain  Welling!"  she  gasped. 

"That  is  my  name.  You  must  be  Miss  Lydia  Hamon.  I've 
been  looking  for  you  all  over  town.  Was  that  your  brother?" 

She  swallowed  something. 

"No,"  she  said. 

"I  see  it  was,"  said  the  imperturbable  detective.  "Curiously 
enough,  I  never  thought  of  his  wearing  Moorish  costume. 
Why  I  shouldn't  have  expected  that  little  piece  of  theatricality 
I  don't  know.  It  is  very  becoming;  I'm  thinking  of  buying  a 
jellab  to  take  back  to  London,"  he  mused,  and  even  the  incon- 
gruous picture  of  Captain  Julius  Welling  in  a  white,  loose- 
sleeved  wrap  did  not  give  her  any  amusement. 

He  walked  all  the  way  back  to  the  hotel,  and  she  was  glad. 
It  gave  her  an  opportunity  of  making  her  plans.  They  were 
walking  up  the  narrow  lane  in  which  the  Continental  is  situa- 
ted, when  she  said  suddenly: 

"Captain  Welling,  I  am  afraid  of  my  brother." 

"I  don't  wonder,"  he  murmured.  "I  am  a  little  afraid  of  him 
myself — in  a  way." 

"Would  it  be  possible,"  she  asked,  "to  put  somebody  to  guard 
me  ?  That  sounds  very  stupid,  but " 

"I  think  I  understand,"  said  the  detective.  "That  is  simply 
arranged.  What  is  the  number  of  your  room?" 

"I  don't  even  know,"  she  said  despairingly,  and  then :  "Are 
you  staying  at  the  Continental  ?" 

He  nodded. 

"I  think  I  can  arrange  to  have  my  room  moved  next  to 
yours,"  he  said,  but  on  examination  of  the  register  he  found 
that  was  unnecessary.  She  occupied  a  room  at  the  end  of  the 
second  floor  corridor ;  and,  by  a  coincidence,  Captain  Welling 
was  in  the  next  room. 

At  half -past  eleven,  when  the  hotel  door  was  closing,  there 
came  a  Moor  with  a  letter  addressed  to  Lydia,  and  Welling 
took  it  up  to  her.  She  opened  the  door  to  him,  opened  the 


274  THE  BLACK 

envelope  and  read ;  then,  without  a  word,  she  handed  the  letter 
to  the  old  man. 

Everything  was  all  right  [it  ran].  It  was  only  the  basha's 
bluff.  Sadi  Hafiz  says  that  Morlake  saw  the  basha  this  evening, 
and  the  raid  was  the  result.  Come  up  for  a  few  minutes  and 
be  civil  to  Sadi.  I  will  bring  you  back  to  the  hotel  myself. 

"May  I  answer  this?"  said  Welling,  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 
When  she  nodded,  he  found  his  fountain  pen,  and,  writing 
at  the  bottom : 

Come  down  and  have  a  talk. — /.  W. 

he  enclosed  it  in  an  envelope  and  took  it  back  to  the  waiting 
messenger. 

"I  don't  think  he  will  come,"  he  said,  when  he  returned  to 
the  girl.  "For  your  sake  I  hope  he  doesn't." 

Welling  went  to  bed  that  night  without  any  fear  of  being 
disturbed.  Hamon  would  not  run  the  risk  of  putting  himself 
in  the  detective's  way,  for,  although  the  evidence  that  the  police 
had  against  him  was  scrappy  and  not  sufficient  to  justify  the 
hope  even  of  a  committal,  let  alone  a  conviction,  Ralph  Hamon 
would  be  ignorant  of  its  incompleteness,  and  his  conscience 
would  occupy  the  gaps  which  Welling  was  trying  to  fill. 

He  was  a  light  sleeper,  and  the  first  pebble  that  struck  his 
window  pane  woke  him.  He  did  not  put  on  the  light,  but,  get- 
ting noiselessly  out  of  bed,  he  opened  half  of  his  window  and 
looked  out  cautiously. 

Two  men,  one  carrying  a  lantern,  were  standing  in  the  lane 
below.  He  saw  one  raise  his  hand  and  throw  a  stone.  This  time 
it  struck  Lydia's  window,  and  he  heard  her  walk  across  the 
room. 

"Is  that  Miss  Hamon?"  asked  a  low  voice. 

"Yes?"  she  replied.  "Who  is  that?" 

"It  is  Sadi  Hafiz.  Your  brother  has  shot  himself !" 

Welling  heard  her  cry  of  distress,  but  did  not  move. 

"Will  you  come  down?"  urgently,  and  then:  "I  am  afraid 


WELLING  ADDS  A  POSTSCRIPT       375 

he  cannot  live,  and  he  has  given  me  something  for  ycu,  some- 
thing he  wants  you  to  give  to  Mr.  Morlake." 

"Wait — I  will  come  immediately,"  she  said  hurriedly. 

Welling  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  pulled  on  his  slippers 
and  his  overcoat.  She  must  have  been  fully  dressed,  for  she 
was  out  of  sight  by  the  time  he  was  in  the  corridor,  and  he  heard 
her  fumbling  with  the  locks  and  chains  of  the  front  door.  She 
opened  it  at  last,  and,  peering  over  the  stairway,  he  saw  the 
Moor  enter. 

"When  did  this  happen?" 

Her  voice  was  trembling. 

"It  happened  last  night.  Apparently  your  brother  had  seen 
a  police  officer  he  knew,  and  he  came  back  to  my  house  in  a 
state  of  great  trouble.  I  left  him  for  a  little  while  to  get  coffee, 
and  I  had  hardly  turned  my  back  before  I  heard  a  shot,  and, 
running  in,  found  him  lying  on  the  divan." 

"He  is  not  dead?" 

Sadi  Hafiz  shook  his  head. 

"For  a  moment,  no.  You  have  nothing  to  fear  because  the 
house  is  in  possession  of  the  basha's  soldier's,"  he  said,  "and 
Captain  Morlake  is  there.  Will  you  come?" 

"You  said  you  had  something  for  me." 

He  put  his  hand  into  his  breast  and  took  out  a  little  package, 
which  he  handed  to  her.  In  another  instant  she  had  followed 
him  through  the  door  into  the  dark  street. 

Welling,  old  as  he  was,  jumped  the  last  six  stairs,  and,  fly- 
ing across  the  hallway,  reached  her  just  as  she  put  her  foot 
on  the  street  step. 

"One  minute,"  he  said,  and  jerked  her  through  the  door. 

And  then,  with  amazing  agility,  he  leapt  aside  to  avoid  the 
bludgeon  stroke  that  was  aimed  at  him  by  a  man  concealed  in 
the  deep  doorway.  In  another  second  he  was  in  t^c  house,  the 
doors  locked,  and  he  had  switched  on  the  hall  light. 

"Fooled  'em !"  he  said  breathlessly. 

"But,  Mr.  Welling— my  brother " 

"Your  brother  has  not  shot  himself.  That  kind  of  guy  never 
does." 

He  took  the  envelope  from  her  hand. 


270  THE  BLACK 

"They  were  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone,  young  lady, 
but  I  was  the  real  burnt-offering.  This  wonderful  something 
is,  of  course,  a  blank  sheet  of  paper." 

He  took  her  back  to  her  room,  bewildered  and  dazed  by  the 
happening. 

"You  don't  think  that  it  is  true?" 

"I  know  it  is  not  true,"  he  said.  "The  stone  that  was  thrown 
at  my  window  was  intended  to  wake  me,  and  it  was  intended 
that  I  should  overhear  your  conversation.  And  the  general  idea, 
as  they  say  in  military  circles,  was  that,  as  soon  as  I  put  my 
foot  outside  the  street  door,  I  was  to  get  it  in  the  neck — and 
I  nearly  did !  On  the  whole,  I  think  I  have  taken  too  unflatter- 
ing a  view  of  the  Oriental  mind.  They  are  clever !" 


CHAPTER   LVII 
The  Ride  to  the  Hills 

THAT  night  held  for  Joan  Carston  an  unbelievable  experience. 
For  four  hours  she  sat  on  an  ambling  mule,  passing  through  a 
country  which  she  could  not  see,  and  the  very  character  of 
which  was  a  mystery  to  her.  They  were  following,  so  far  as  she 
could  tell,  no  beaten  tracks,  and  from  time  to  time  her  feet 
were  caught  by  thorn-like  bushes  that  clung  to  the  soft  white 
wrap  she  wore. 

At  daybreak  she  saw  that  they  were  in  a  wild  and  appar- 
ently uninhabited  country.  The  party  consisted  of  six  men  and 
the  girl  who  had  looked  after  her  at  her  resting  place.  One 
of  the  men  lit  a  fire  and  put  on  a  pot  of  water,  whilst  another 
took  the  mules  to  a  stream  which  must  have  been  near  but  which 
was  not  visible  to  her. 

She  looked  around,  trying  in  vain  to  recall  such  physical 
features  of  Morocco  as  she  had  learnt  at  school,  that  would 


THE  RIDE  TO  THE  HILLS  277 

enable  her  to  identify  the  spot.  Blue  mountains  bordeied  half 
the  horizon,  and  far  away  in  the  distance  she  saw  an  isolated 
mountain  of  peculiar  shape,  which  she  recognised  as  the  crest 
of  Gibraltar.  One  of  the  men  found  a  little  bower  in  the  bushes 
and  spread  a  blanket,  signing  to  her  to  sleep.  But  Joan  had 
never  felt  more  wide  awake,  and  though  she  retired  to  such 
privacy  as  the  "bower"  offered,  it  was  only  to  lie  and  think 
and  think,  and  then  to  think  again. 

The  Moorish  girl  brought  her  a  large  tumblerful  of  coffee 
and  an  oaten  cake,  and  she  was  glad  of  this  refreshment,  for 
she  had  had  nothing  to  eat  since  her  lunch  on  the  previous  day. 

"Have  we  far  to  go  ?"  she  asked  in  halting  Spanish. 

The  Moorish  girl  shook  her  head,  but  volunteered  no  infor- 
mation. 

After  two  hours'  rest  the  cavalcade  got  in  movement  again, 
and  it  puzzled  her  why  such  isolated  travellers  as  they  met  with 
did  not  show  any  surprise  at  the  appearance  of  a  European 
woman,  until  she  remembered  that  she  was  wearing  Moorish 
dress.  If  they  stared  at  her  at  all,  it  was  because  she  did  not 
veil  her  face  when  she  passed  them. 

The  hills  were  growing  nearer,  and  she  saw  a  little  white 
patch  on  the  slope,  without  realising  that  that  was  their  ob- 
jective. The  patch  grew  to  a  definite  shape  as  the  way  began 
to  lead  uphill,  and  she  could  not  but  admire  the  beautiful  set- 
ting of  the  house.  It  looked  like  a  white  jewel,  and  even  from 
that  distance  she  could  guess  the  glory  of  the  gardens  laid  out 
on  terraces  above  and  below. 

Here  the  country  was  undulating,  and  they  were  threading 
their  way  between  the  bushes  down  a  gentle  slope,  when  she 
saw  a  man  sitting  on  a  sorry-looking  horse  a  little  distance  to 
their  right.  The  rest  of  the  members  of  the  party  paid  him  no 
attention,  but  the  Moorish  girl,  who  was  now  riding  by  her 
side,  used  a  word  that  Joan  understood. 

"A  mendicant?"  she  said  in  surprise,  and  might  have  been 
amused  in  other  circumstances  at  the  spectacle  of  a  beggar  on 
horseback. 

He  was  an  elderly  man  with  a  beard  in  which  grey  predomi- 
nated. His  face  looked  as  if  it  had  never  known  soap  and 


278  THE  BLACK 

water.  The  tarboosh  at  the  back  of  his  head  was  old  and  greasy. 
He  stared  at  the  party  as  it  passed,  and  the  Moorish  girl 
dropped  her  veil  and  signed  to  her  companion  to  follow  her 
example. 

Joan  was  too  interested.  She  took  stock  of  the  man  as  they 
passed,  noted  the  ragged  jellab  that  covered  his  stooping  frame, 
the  discoloured  shirt  that  showed  at  his  throat,  and  thought 
that  she  had  never  seen  anything  quite  so  repulsive. 

"Alms !"  he  bawled  when  they  were  level  with  him.  "Alms, 
in  the  name  of  God  the  Compassionate !" 

One  of  the  party  flung  him  a  copper  coin  and  he  caught  it 
dexterously  in  his  uncleanly  hands. 

"Alms,  O  my  beautiful  rose,  in  the  name  of  the  Compas- 
sionate and  Merciful,  pity  the  poor!" 

His  voice  sank  away  to  a  drone. 

The  girl  was  ready  to  drop  from  weariness  before  thej 
reached  the  open  gates  that  took  them  through  the  gardens  to 
the  house.  Near  at  hand,  the  white  house  was  even  more  beau- 
tiful than  it  had  appeared  from  the  distance.  It  was  nearly 
new,  yet  its  walls  were  smothered  with  begonias. 

"It  must  be  beautiful  in  the  summer,"  she  said  in  English 
before  she  realised  that  the  girl  at  her  side  could  not  under- 
stand her. 

Before  the  door  stood  a  big  pillared  porch,  so  much  out  of 
architectural  harmony  that  she  wondered  what  freak  had  in- 
duced the  owner  to  add  this  European  finish  to  a  building 
which,  in  its  graceful,  simple  lines,  was  wholly  satisfying. 

As  she  walked  into  the  house,  the  girl,  who  seemed  to  be 
as  much  a  stranger  to  the  place  as  she,  ran  forward  to  ask  a 
question  in  a  whisper  of  the  women  who  were  curiously  re- 
garding the  arrival.  One  of  these  came  forward,  a  stout  woman 
with  a  heavy  face,  disfigured  at  the  moment  with  a  scowl  which 
made  her  forbidding.  She  said  something  in  a  sharp  tone,  and 
when  Joan  shook  her  head  to  signify  that  she  did  not  under- 
stand, she  clicked  her  lips  impatiently.  Pointing  to  a  door,  the 
Moorish  girl,  who  seemed  in  awe  of  the  stout  lady,  opened  it 
and  beckoned  Joan  forward. 

The  room  was  exquisitely  furnished  and  reminded  her  of 


AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE  279 

tin  English  drawing-room,  except  that  the  windows,  like  those 
in  most  of  the  Moorish  houses,  were  barred.  She  looked  round 
curiously,  and  then  asked  in  Spanish : 

"Who  is  that  fat  woman  ?" 

The  Moorish  girl  giggled  shrilly. 

"That  is  the  Senora  Hamon,"  she  said,  and  Joan  sat  down 
suddenly  on  the  nearest  divan  and  shook  with  helpless  laughter. 

She  might  become  the  principal,  but  she  certainly  would 
not  be  the  first  wife  of  Mr.  Ralph  Hamon ! 


CHAPTER   LVIII 

At  the  White  House 

"WHO  are  the  other  women?  Are  they  his  wives  also?"  she 
asked  drily. 

The  little  Moor  shook  her  head. 

"There  is  only  one  wife  here,"  she  said,  and  Joan  managed 
to  follow  her  Spanish  without  difficulty.  "The  others  are 
women  of  attendance.  The  wife  does  not  live  here ;  she  came  a 
little  time  ago.  She  has  not  seen  her  husband  for  many  years." 

She  spoke  slowly,  repeating  her  words  when  Joan  failed  to 
grasp  the  meaning. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  girl. 

"Clarof"  asked  the  little  Moor,  whose  name  was  Zuleika. 

"Perfectly  claro,"  said  Joan  with  a  smile. 

Why  she  should  be  so  extraordinarily  cheerful  at  this,  which 
promised  to  be  the  most  tragic  moment  of  her  life,  puzzled 
her.  It  might  have  been  the  tang  of  the  fresh  mountain  air  that 
induced  the  strange  exhilaration  in  her  heart;  or  was  it  the 
consciousness  that  the  future  could  hold  no  surprises  for  her, 
that  enabled  her  to  draw  a  line  under  her  misfortunes  and  seek 
for  some  balance  on  the  credit  side  of  life's  ledger?  The  ceil- 
ing reminded  her  of  Jim's  room :  it  was  made  of  thick  white 


280  THE  BLACK 

plaster,  in  which  Moorish  workmen,  with  their  sharp  knives*, 
had  cut  so  delicate  a  tracery  that  it  almost  seemed  that  the 
ceiling  was  made  of  frothing  lace. 

European  houses  must  have  supplied  the  furniture  and  the 
panelling.  The  big  blue  carpet,  bordered  with  arabesques  of 
gold  and  brown,  had  been  woven  in  one  piece  on  the  looms  of 
Persia.  She  saw  the  European  touch  in  the  white  marble  fire- 
place, with  its  green  pillars  and  its  crouching  lions.  Ralph 
Hamon  must  have  had  this  retreat  in  his  mind  all  his  life,  for 
she  detected  at  a  glance  the  care  which  had  been  exercised  in 
choosing  every  single  article  in  the  room. 

Beautiful  it  was,  but  a  prison !  It  might  be  something  worse. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  chamber  a  wide  window  was  covered 
on  the  outside  by  a  hand-worked  grille  of  wrought  iron.  She 
opened  the  window  and  leant  out,  taking  in  the  beauty  of  the 
wide  valley.  From  here  she  caught  the  distant  sparkle  of  the 
sea,  and,  turning  her  head,  saw  that  the  bulk  of  Gibraltar  was 
in  view. 

She  noticed  something  moving  in  the  valley,  and  shaded  her 
eyes  from  the  glare  of  the  setting  sun.  It  was  the  beggar,  and 
he  was  riding  back  on  the  Tangier  Road.  For  one  second  her 
poise  was  disturbed. 

"Joan,  Joan,"  she  said  breathlessly,  "you  are  not  going  to 
weep  or  faint  or  do  anything  equally  feminine,  are  you  ?"  and 
she  shook  her  head. 

Closing  the  window,  she  walked  back  to  the  door  and  turned 
the  silver  handle.  She  did  not  expect  it  to  open  as  it  did.  The 
hall  was  empty ;  the  swing  doors  were  not  fastened  Apparently 
she  was  to  be  given  a  certain  amount  of  liberty,  and  for  that 
at  least  she  was  grateful. 

But  once  she  was  in  the  garden,  she  saw  how  hopeless  any 
thought  of  escape  must  be.  The  wall  about  the  property  was 
unusually  high,  even  for  a  Moorish  house,  and  was  crowned  at 
the  top  by  spears  of  broken  glass  that  glittered  in  the  sun- 
light, as  though  to  remind  her  that  escape  that  way  was  futile. 

The  gate  was  equally  impossible.  There  was  a  little  brick 
lean-to  built  against  the  wall,  in  which  the  gatekeeper  slept, »and 
she  was  reminded  (and  again  she  felt  that  pang  of  poignant 


AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE  281 

sorrow)  of  Creith  and  the  empty  lodge  which  Lord  Creith 
could  never  afford  to  fill. 

Tired  and  sickened  against  her  fierce  determination  to  keep 
all  thoughts  of  home,  of  father  and  of  someone  else  out  of  her 
mind,  she  went  back  to  the  big  room,  which  was  evidently  re- 
served for  her,  since  nobody  else  came  to  relieve  her  solitude. 

News  had  been  brought  to  Ralph  Hamon  of  the  successful 
ending  of  the  flight,  and  he  rode  across  the  uneven  country,  a 
fierce  song  of  triumph  in  his  soul,  his  eyes  glued  upon  the 
white  house  in  the  hills. 

At  last !  Joan  Carston  was  his,  in  every  possessive  sense.  He 
had  had  a  secret  interview  with  a  red-bearded  man  in  Tangier, 
and  now  his  happiness  was  complete.  Sadi  Hafiz,  who  rode 
by  his  side,  was  in  a  less  cheerful  frame  of  mind.  He  had  seen 
his  cup  of  joy  shattered  whilst  it  was  almost  at  his  lips,  and 
Ralph  Hamon  had  found  him  a  sulky  and  uncompanionable 
fellow-passenger. 

"We  shall  get  there  soon  after  sunset,"  said  Ralph. 

"Why  I  go  there  at  all,  Heaven  knows,"  said  Sadi  pettishly. 
He  invariably  spoke  in  English,  priding  himself,  with  reason, 
not  only  upon  his  extraordinary  knowledge  of  the  language 
but  his  acquaintance  with  the  rich  classics  of  that  tongue. 
"You've  made  a  bungling  mess  of  my  affairs,  Hamon !" 

Ralph  Hamon  laughed  coarsely,  not  being  in  the  mood  to 
feel  angry,  even  at  so  unjust  an  accusation. 

"Who  was  it  came  flying  into  the  room  and  saying  that  the 
basha  and  his  soldiers  were  at  the  door?  Who  practically 
turned  her  out  of  the  house  when  he  had  her  safe?  Whose 
plan  was  it  to  wake  up  the  detective  so  that  he  might  be  quiet- 
ened, when  it  would  have  been  a  simple  matter,  as  was  proved, 
to  have  brought  Lydia  to  your  house?  I  haven't  bungled  it, 
Sadi.  You  must  have  patience.  Lydia  is  still  in  Tangier,  and 
will  probably  remain  there  for  a  few  days,  and  it  should  not 
be  difficult,  if  I  could  bring  my  lady  to  this  place " 

"If  you  could  bring!"  sneered  the  other.  "Inshallah!  Who 
brought  her  but  me,  the  Shereef  Sadi  Hafiz?" 

"She  is  lovely,"  said  the  unthinking  Hamon  with  enthusiasm. 

rWhy  else  should  I  be  making  this  journey?"  said  Sadi 


282  THE  BLACK 

coldly,  and  something  in  his  tone  made  Ralph  Hamon  look 
round. 

"You  may  satisfy  your  curiosity  and  then  you  may  go,"  he 
said  curtly,  "and  bestow  your  attentions  where  they  are  most 
likely  to  be  acceptable.  Let  there  be  no  mistake  about  this, 
Sadi :  this  girl  is  to  marry  me." 

The  shereef  shrugged  his  broad  shoulders. 

"Women  are  as  many  as  beggars,"  he  quoted,  and  jerked  his 
head  to  the  nondescript  figure  that  was  ambling  toward  them. 

"Alms,  in  the  name  of  Allah  the  Compassionate  and  Merci- 
ful!" moaned  the  beggar,  and  Ralph  looked  at  him  without 
interest.  He  had  seen  such  sights  too  often. 

"A  toothless  old  devil,"  he  said,  and  in  the  manner  of  the 
East  flung  him  a  coin. 

"God  grant  you  happy  dreams,"  whined  the  mendicant,  and 
urged  his  horse  after  him.  "Gain  joy  in  heaven  and  the  pleasure 
of  the  prophets,"  he  moaned,  "by  giving  me  one  little  house  to 
sleep  in  to-night,  for  I  am  an  old  man  ...  !" 

Sadi,  being  what  he  was,  could  bear  this  appeai  philosophi- 
cally. Ralph  turned  with  a  smile  and  glared  into  the  red-rimmed 
«yes. 

"Get  away,  you  dog!"  he  roared,  but  the  old  man  followed 
on,  continuing  his  supplications  in  a  monotonous  whine. 

"Let  me  sleep  in  the  shadow  of  your  house,  O  my  beautiful 
bird  of  paradise !  Give  me  a  blanket  and  a  little  roof,  for  the 
nights  are  cold  and  I  am  a  very  ancient  man." 

"Let  him  alone,"  said  Sadi.  "Why  do  you  argue  with  beg- 
gars, and  you  so  long  in  Morocco?" 

So  they  suffered  the  old  man  to  follow  them  at  a  distance, 
until  the  door  slammed  in  the  long  face  of  his  horse,  and  he 
went,  grumbling  and  complaining,  down  the  hillside,  and  later 
Ralph  saw  him,  his  horse  hobbled  by  the  leg  grazing  in  the 
coarse  grass,  and  a  blue  line  of  smoke  rising  from  the  bushes 
where  the  ancient  beggar  ate  his  dinner. 

Ralph  Hamon  had  an  unpleasant  task,  and  he  was  not  par- 
ticularly anxious  to  go  to  it.  He  dined  with  Sadi  in  a  small 
room  oS  the  haU- 


AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE  283 

"You're  not  a  very  ardent  lover,"  said  the  Moor.  "Have  you 
seen  her?" 

"She  can  wait,"  replied  Hamon. 

"Then  I  will  meet  her,"  said  Sadi  blandly.  And  seeing  the 
other's  hesitation :  "After  all,  you're  not  a  Mussulman,  and  I 
think  the  young  lady  might  be  reassured  to  meet  a  Moorish 
gentleman  and  to  learn  that  we  are  not  wholly  without  good 
breeding." 

"I'll  take  you  in  to  her  later,  but  I  have  something  else  to 
do,"  said  Ralph  shortly. 

The  "something  else"  was  to  interview  a  woman  whom  he 
had  not  seen  for  eight  years.  As  he  walked  into  her  room,  it 
seemed  impossible  that  this  stout,  scowling  female  was  once 
a  Moorish  lady  of  considerable  beauty,  slim  and  wholly  delect- 
able. 

"So  you  have  come,  Hamon?"  she  said  harshly.  "All  these 
years  I  have  not  heard  from  you  or  seen  you." 

"Have  you  been  hungry  ?"  asked  Hamon  coolly.  "Have  you 
been  without  a  roof  or  a  bed  ?" 

"Who  is  this  girl  you  have  brought  here?"  asked  the  woman 
suspiciously. 

"She  will  soon  be  my  wife,"  replied  Hamon,  and  th«  woman 
leapt  up,  quivering  with  anger. 

"Then  why  did  you  bring  me  here  ?"  she  stormed.  "To  make 
me  look  a  fool  before  my  servants  ?  Why  did  you  not  leave  me 
at  Mogador  ?  At  least  I  have  friends  there.  Here  I  am  buried 
alive  in  the  wilderness.  And  why  ?  That  I  should  be  a  slave  to 
your  new  wife?  I  will  not  do  it,  Hamon!" 

Hamon  felt  sure  of  himself  now. 

"You  can  go  back  to  Mogador  next  week.  You  are  here  for 
a  purpose  of  my  own." 

She  brooded  awhile. 

"Does  she  know  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  told  the  girl  to  tell  her,  so  I  suppose  she  does,"  said  Hamon 
carelessly. 

He  had  indeed  a  very  excellent  purpose  to  serve.  His  Moor- 
ish "wife"  had  been  brought  post  haste  to  the  house  in  the  hills 


284  THE  BLACK, 

that  Joan  might  see  her,  and,  seeing  her,  understand.  The 
subtle  mind  of  Ralph  Hamon  was  never  better  illustrated  than 
in  this  act  of  his. 

He  went  back  to  Sadi  Hafiz. 

"I'm  going  to  see  my  lady,"  he  said,  "and  afterwards  I  will 
bring  you  in." 

He  tapped  at  the  door  of  the  drawing-room,  and  as  there 
was  no  answer,  he  turned  the  handle  and  walked  in.  Joan  was 
on  a  music-stool  before  the  grand  piano,  her  hands  folded  on 
her  lap.  All  the  evening  she  had  been  trying  to  work  up  an  in- 
clination to  play,  and  she  had  at  last  brought  herself  to  the 
piano  when  Hamon  made  his  appearance. 

"Are  you  comfortable?"  he  asked. 

She  did  not  reply.  He  stood  for  a  while,  admiring  the  straight 
figure  and  the  calm,  imperturbable  face.  A  lesser  breed  would 
have  shown  the  hatred  and  loathing  she  felt,  but  not  a  line  of 
her  face  changed,  and  he  might  have  been  a  servant  of  Creith 
who  had  come  at  her  summons,  so  unmoved  and  unemotional 
was  her  reception. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  place,  eh  ?  One  of  the  loveliest  in  Morocco," 
he  went  on.  "A  girl  could  be  happy  here  for  a  year  or  two. 
Have  you  seen  Number  One?" 

He  sat  down,  uninvited,  and  lit  a  cigar. 

"By  Number  One  I  presume  you  mean  Mrs.  Hamon  ?" 

He  nodded.  She  had  never  seen  Ralph  Hamon  look  quite  so 
cheerful  as  he  did  at  that  moment.  It  was  as  though  all  the 
trouble  in  the  world  had  rolled  away  from  him  and  left  him 
care- free  and  buoyant  of  heart. 

"When  I  say  'first,' "  said  Joan  carefully,  "I  of  course  ex- 
pose my  ignorance  of  Moorish  customs.  At  any  rate,  she  is 
the  first  I  have  seen." 

"And  the  last  you'll  see,  Joan,"  he  said  with  a  laugh.  "Mar- 
riages, they  say,  are  made  in  heaven.  Pleasant  alliances  can  be 
made  in  Morocco,  but  Number  One,  first,  last  and  all  the  time, 
fcrill  be  Lady  Joan  Hamon." 

A  shadow  of  a  smile  came  and  went. 

"It  sounds  beastly,  doesn't  it  ?"  she  said  frankly. 

She  had  a  trick  of  irritating  him  more  than  any  other  human 


AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE  285 

being.  She  could  get  under  his  skin  and  drag  on  the  raw  places. 
For  a  second  his  eyes  blazed,  and  then,  swallowing  his  rage, 
he  forced  a  laugh.  Secretly  he  admired  her  cool  insolence,  and 
would  gladly  have  imitated  her  if  it  were  possible. 

"It  may  sound  bad,  but  it  is  a  good  enough  name  for  me," 
he  said. 

"Is  that  a  Moorish  custom  too?"  she  asked  coolly.  "That 
a  girl  takes  the  name  of  the  man  who  abducts  her?  You  must 
instruct  me  in  the  Moorish  marriage  laws;  I'm  afraid  I'm 
totally  ignorant  on  the  subject." 

He  crossed  to  where  she  was  sitting,  pulling  his  chair  with 
him. 

"Now  listen,  Joan,"  he  said  quietly.  "There  is  to  be  no  Moor- 
ish marriage.  There  is  to  be  an  honest-to-God  marriage,  con- 
ducted by  a  fully  ordained  minister  of  the  Episcopalian  Church, 
with  wedding  ring  and  the  usual  paraphernalia.  I  asked  you  just 
now,  had  you  seen  my  Moorish  wife,  and  I  guess  you  have. 
What  do  you  think  of  her?" 

Joan  did  not  speak.  She  was  trying  to  discover  what  he  was 
aiming  at. 

"What  do  you  think  of  her  ?"  he  asked  again. 

"I  feel  extremely  sorry  for  her.  She  wasn't  particularly 
pleasant  to  me,  but  I  have  every  sympathy  with  her." 

"You  have,  eh?  Fat,  isn't  she?  Pasty-faced  and  over- fed. 
They  go  like  that  in  Morocco.  It  is  the  dark  of  the  harem,  the 
absence  of  liberty  and  exercise.  It  is  being  treated  like  cattle, 
locked  up  in  a  hothouse  atmosphere  day  and  night,  and  exer- 
cised for  half-an-hour  a  day  under  the  eyes  of  slaves.  Why,  it 
is  worse  than  being  in  prison.  That  is  what  it  means  to  be  a 
Moorish  wife.  Joan,  do  you  want  to  be  a  Moorish  wife?" 

She  met  his  eyes  straightly. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  any  kind  of  wife  to  you,"  she  said. 

"Do  you  want  to  be  a  Moorish  wife?"  he  asked  her.  "Or  do 
you  want  to  be  married,  and  have  children  who  can  bear  your 
name  and  inherit  your  father's  title  ?" 

She  rose  abruptly  from  the  stool  and  walked  to  the  end  of 
the  room,  her  back  toward  him. 

"We  won't  go  any  farther  into  this  question  for  the  mo- 


286  THE  BLACK 

ment,"  said  Ralph  rising.  "I'd  like  you  to  meet  a  very  dear 
friend  of  mine,  Sadi  Hafiz,  and  be  civil  to  him,  do  you  hear, 
but  not  too  civil." 

Something  in  his  tone  made  her  turn. 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"Because  he  is  feeling  sore  with  me  just  now.  He  is  very 
keen  on  Lydia,  and  Lydia  has  slipped  him.  I  don't  want  him  to 
have  ideas  about  you." 

He  left  her  to  meditate  upon  this  warning,  and  went  out, 
to  return  with  the  silk-robed  Sadi,  and  a  new  factor  came 
immediately  into  play.  One  glance  Joan  gave,  and  she  knew 
that  this  man  was  as  great  a  danger  as  Ralph  Hamon.  Greater, 
for  if  he  was  as  remorseless,  he  was  less  susceptible,  since  he 
had  not  that  brand  of  human  vanity  which  made  Ralph  Hamon 
so  easy  to  handle.  She  hated  him,  with  his  fat,  expressionless 
face  and  his  dark,  unblinking  eyes  that  looked  at  her  through 
and  through,  appraising  her  as  though  she  were  cattle.  She 
hated  him  for  the  veneer  of  his  civilisation,  his  polite  English, 
his  ready  smile. 

Here,  then,  was  the  danger :  this  she  recognised  instantly. 

Sadi  Hafiz  did  not  remain  very  long — just  long  enough  to 
create  an  impression.  In  Joan's  case  he  would  have  been  sur- 
prised if  he  had  read  her  heart  and  mind,  for  he  rather  flattered 
himself  upon  his  flair  for  imposing  his  personality  upon 
women. 

"What  do  you  think  of  him?"  asked  Ralph  when  he  had 
gone. 

"I  haven't  thought,"  she  said  untruthfully. 

"A  good  friend  and  a  bad  enemy,"  said  Hamon  sententiously, 
"I  wish  Lydia  had  had  a  little  more  sense.  She  owes  me  some- 
thing." 

Joan  thought  it  was  possible  that  he  might  owe  Lydia  some- 
thing too,  but  was  not  in  the  mood  for  conversation.  Unex- 
pectedly he  rose. 

"I'm  going  now.  You'll  find  your  sleeping  room,  I  suppose? 
Pleasant  dreams !" 

She  said  nothing. 

At  the  door  he  turned. 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW     287 

"A  Christian  wife  has  a  better  time  than  a  Moorish  wife.  I 
guess  you've  noticed  that  already." 

Still  she  did  not  speak. 

"We'll  be  married  in  two  days,"  he  said,  and,  with  a  crooked 
smile :  "Would  you  like  anybody  else  to  come  to  the  wedding  ?" 

"You  dare  not,"  she  was  taunted  into  saying.  "You  dare  not 
produce  an  English  clergyman !" 

"Oh,  daren't  I  ?"  he  said.  "I'll  not  only  produce  him,  but  he'll 
marry  us  whatever  you  say,  and  whatever  protests  you  make. 
You're  going  to  meet  an  old  friend,  Joan." 

"An  old  friend?"  She  was  for  the  moment  taken  aback. 

"An  old  clerical  friend,"  said  Hamon.  "The  Reverend  Mr. 
Bannockwaite,"  and  with  this  parting  shot  he  left  her,  and  she 
heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock. 


CHAPTER    LIX 

The  Face  at  the  Window 

SADI  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  smoking-room,  and  so  ab- 
sorbed was  the  Moor  in  his  thoughts  that  he  did  not  hear 
Hamon  until  his  name  was  called. 

"Eh  ?"  he  said,  looking  up.  "Allah,  you  frightened  me.  Yes, 
yes,  she  is  a  pretty  woman — not  the  Moorish  kind,  and  too  thin 
for  my  liking.  But  you  Aryans  prefer  them  that  way ;  I  have 
never  understood  why." 

Hamon  was  not  deceived ;  the  girl  had  made  a  tremendous 
impression  upon  the  Moor  and  he  was  watchful  and  alert. 

"Do  you  like  her  better  than  Lydia  ?"  he  asked  humorously, 
as  he  poured  out  a  drink  from  the  decanter. 

The  Moor  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"In  some  ways  Lydia  is  impossible,"  he  said. 

That  was  a  bad  sign  and  Hamon  knew  it.  The  thought  of 
Lydia  had  absorbed  this  man  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else,  and 


288  THE  BLACK 

now  he  could  talk  of  her  critically  and  without  heat — a  very 
bad  sign. 

"Shall  you  go  back  to  Tangier  to-morrow  ?"  he  asked,  and 
his  eyes  narrowed  when  the  Moor  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I  have  decided  to  stay  on  for  a  little  while.  I  need  the 
change.  It  has  been  a  nervous  time  for  me." 

"But  you  promised  to  bring  Bannockwaite  ?" 

"He  will  come  without  any  assistance  from  me.  I've  told 
one  of  my  men.  Besides,  your  English  agent  could  arrange 
to  bring  him.  He'll  come  if  you  pay  him." 

"Do  you  know  him  very  well  ?"  asked  Hamon. 

"I've  seen  him.  He  has  become  quite  a  character  in  Tangier," 
said  Sadi  Hafiz.  "He  arrived  during  the  war  and  the  story  I 
have  heard  is  that  he  got  drunk  on  the  eve  of  the  Battle  of  the 
Somme  and  deserted.  He  is  a  man  entirely  without  principle, 
surely  he  could  not  perform  the  marriage  ceremony?  You 
told  me  he  was  unfrocked." 

Ralph  shook  his  head. 

"His  name  appeared  in  the  official  list  of  clergymen  of  the 
Established  Church  until  he  was  reported  missing  on  the 
Somme.  I  have  an  idea  it  is  still  in  the  list ;  but  even  if  it  isn't, 
that  would  not  invalidate  the  marriage." 

"Why  marry  at  all  ?"  asked  the  Moor,  looking  up  suddenly. 
"You  are  a  stickler  for  the  conventions,  my  friend^" 

Ralph  smiled. 

"Not  so  much  as  you  think,"  he  said.  "I've  a  reason.  The 
Creith  title  will  descend  through  my  wife  to  her  children." 

Again  the  Moor  shrugged. 

"It  is  a  freakish  idea,"  he  said,  "but  then,  freakishness  has 
been  responsible  for  your  downfall,  Hamon." 

"I  have  not  fallen  yet,"  snarled  Hamon. 

"But  you  will,"  said  the  other,  "unless,"  he  went  on  quickly, 
seeing  the  look  of  distrust  and  suspicion  in  the  man's  eyes,  "un- 
less you  elect  to  remain  here  in  Morocco,  outside  the  juris- 
diction of  the  embassies." 

He  stretched  his  arms  and  yawned. 

"I'm  going  to  bed,"  he  said.  "You  will  be  pleased  to  learn 
that  I've  decided  to  go  back  to  Tangier  in  the  mornmg." 


THE  FACE  AT  THE  WINDOW  289 

He  saw  the  look  of  relief  in  the  other's  face  and  smiled  in- 
wardly. 

"And  I  will  send  along  your  Bannockwaite  under  escort." 

When  Hamon  woke  the  next  morning,  he  learnt  that  the 
Shereef  had  departed,  and  was  thankful.  He  did  not  go  in  to 
Joan,  though  he  saw  her,  from  his  room,  walking  in  the  gar- 
den. 

Hamon's  plan  was  not  wholly  dictated  by  a  desire  to  break 
into  the  peerage.  As  Creith's  son-in-law  he  would  be  possessed 
of  powerful  influence.  It  was  not  likely  that  the  Earl  would 
kick  once  the  girl  was  married ;  and  he  knew  her  well  enough 
to  be  satisfied  that,  if  she  bore  his  name,  she  would  at  least 
be  outwardly  loyal. 

He  mounted  a  horse  and  went  down  the  hillside,  and  his 
way  took  him  past  the  camp  of  the  old  beggar.  The  scarecrow 
horse  raised  his  head  to  view  him  for  a  moment,  and  resumed 
its  grazing,  but  the  old  man  was  not  in  sight.  A  fantastic  idea 
came  to  him  and  he  grinned  at  the  thought.  There  was  some- 
thing about  Ralph  Hamon  that  was  not  quite  normal. 

In  the  evening  his  servant  reported  that  a  party  was  ap- 
proaching the  house,  and,  taking  his  glasses,  he  inspected  the 
three  men  who  were  riding  across  the  wild  country  in  his  di- 
rection. Two  were  Moors ;  the  third,  who  rolled  about  on  his 
horse  like  somebody  drunk,  he  recognised,  though  he  had 
never  seen  him  except  by  match  light,  and,  hastily  running 
from  the  house,  he  was  waiting  at  the  open  gates  when  the 
Rev.  Aylmer  Bannockwaite  arrived. 

The  man  almost  fell  from  his  horse,  but  recovered  himself 
with  the  aid  of  the  Moor  who  was  with  him  and  who  evidently 
expected  some  such  accident,  for  he  had  sprung  off  his  horse 
the  moment  the  party  halted  and  run  to  the  clergyman's  side. 

Bannockwaite  turned  his  bloated  face  to  his  host,  but,  ignor- 
ing the  outstretched  hand,  he  fumbled  in  his  dilapidated  waist- 
coat and  produced  a  glass,  which  he  fixed  in  his  eye. 

"Who  are  you  and  what  are  you?"  he  said  irritably.  "You 
have  brought  me  across  this  wretched  country,  you  have  in- 
terfered with  my  proper  and  pleasant  recreations — now  what 
the  devil  do  you  mean  by  it  ?" 


2QO  THE  BLACK 

"I'm  sorry  if  I  have  inconvenienced  you,  Mr.  Bannock- 
waite,"  said  Ralph,  humouring  the  man. 

"Handsomely  said." 

A  big,  flabby  paw  gripped  Ralph  Hamon's  feebly. 

"Handsomely  said,  my  boy.  Now  if  you  can  give  me  a  little 
time  to  rest,  and  a  pipe  of  that  seductive  hemp  to  steady  my 
nerves  and  stimulate  my  imagination  I'm  your  friend  for  life. 
And  if  you  will  add  a  glass  of  the  priceless  Marsala  and  a 
scented  cigarette,  I  am  your  slave  body  and  soul !" 

Watching  from  her  window,  Joan  saw  the  obscene  figure, 
and  immediately  guessed  his  identity.  Could  that  be  Bannock- 
waite,  the  tall,  dapper  ascetic?  She  had  only  seen  him  twice, 
and  yet . .  .  there  was  a  likeness ;  something  in  his  walk,  in  the 
roll  of  his  head.  She  stared  open-mouthed  until  he  had  passed 
out  of  view,  then  sat,  her  head  in  her  hands,  trying  to  bring  into 
order  that  confusion  of  her  thoughts. 

It  was  Bannockwaite.  Then  he  was  not  dead:  Bannock- 
waite,  the  fastidious,  half-mad  parson,  the  idol  of  Hulston,  the 
inventor  of  bizarre  secret  societies  was  this  gross  and  uncleanly 
creature  whose  rags  and  dirt  were  an  offence  to  the  eye. 

How  had  Ralph  Hamon  found  him,  she  wondered,  and 
changed  the  current  of  her  thoughts  as  she  realised  the  un- 
profit  of  speculation. 

Bannockwaite  would  marry  her,  whatever  were  her  pro- 
tests ;  that  she  knew  instinctively.  Even  if  he  had  been  his  old, 
sane  self — if  he  ever  were  sane — the  queer  situation  would 
have  so  appealed  to  him  that  he  would  not  have  hesitated. 

Ralph  made  no  appearance  that  night,  although  she  expected 
him  to  bring  the  besotted  parson  to  meet  her.  The  bedroom  led 
from  the  principal  apartment,  a  large  room,  furnished  in  the 
Empire  style.  The  window  here  was  barred,  with  less  elegance 
but  as  effectively  as  the  bigger  room.  She  waited  until  twelve, 
and  then,  undressing,  she  put  over  the  night  attire  that  the 
Moorish  girl  had  brought  her  a  long  fleecy  cloak,  and,  pulling 
a  chair  to  the  window  and  having  extinguished  the  light,  pulled 
back  the  curtain.  As  she  did,  she  screamed  and  almost  dropped 
with  fright.  A  face  was  staring  at  her  through  the  bars,  long- 
bearded,  hook-nosed,  red-eyed,  hideous !  It  was  the  wandering 


THE  MARRIAGE  291 

mendicant  and  in  his  teeth  he  held  a  long  knife  that  glittered  in 
the  moonlight. 


CHAPTER   LX 
The  Marriage 

HE  HEARD  the  scream  and  dropped  quickly  out  of  sight  and 
she  stood,  holding  on  to  the  window-ledge,  her  heart  thump- 
ing painfully.  Who  was  he,  and  what  did  he  want  ?  How  did  he 
come  into  the  garden  ?  In  the  house  complete  silence  reigned. 
Nobody  had  heard  the  scream,  for  the  walls  were  thick. 

It  took  an  effort  to  thrust  open  the  window  and  look  out  as 
far  as  the  bars  would  allow  her.  The  little  garden  looked  peace- 
ful and  mysterious  in  the  moon's  rays.  Long  shadows  ran 
across  the  ground ;  strange  shapes  seemed  to  appear  and  disap- 
pear. And  then  she  saw  him,  moving  cautiously  toward  the 
wall.  In  another  instant  he  was  beyond  her  view. 

Why  did  she  associate  this  midnight  prowler  in  her  mind 
with  Sadi  Hafiz  ?  And  yet  she  did.  Was  he  some  agent  of  this 
cunning  Moor  ?  The  knife  had  not  been  intended  for  her ;  of 
that  she  was  sure. 

It  was  daylight  before  she  went  to  bed  and  she  was  sleeping 
heavily  when  Zuleika  brought  in  coffee  and  fruit  and  drew 
aside  the  curtains. 

"Zuleika,"  she  said  in  her  halting  Spanish,  which  had  im- 
proved since  she  had  had  an  opportunity  of  talking  to  the  girl, 
"do  you  remember  the  old  beggar  we  saw,  the  mendicant  on 
the  horse  ?" 

"Yes,  Lady,"  said  the  girl,  nodding. 

"Who  is  he?" 

The  girl  smiled. 

"There  are  many  in  Morocco.  Some  say  they  are  the  spies 
of  the  chieftains." 

A  spy  of  Sadi  Hafiz !  Put  there  to  watch  her  arrival — why  ? 
Again  that  fear  of  the  Moor  swept  through  her,  but  she  wa* 


292  THE  BLACK 

left  little  time  that  morning  to  meditate,  either  upon  her  terri- 
fying experience  of  the  night  or  the  intentions  of  Sadi.  She 
had  hardly  dressed  and  finished  her  breakfast  when  Ralph 
came  in.  He  was  brisk  and  gave  her  a  cheerful  and  smiling 
good-morning. 

"Joan,  I  want  you  to  meet  the  Rev.  Aylmer  Bannockwaite," 
he  said.  "I  think  you've  met  him  before.  Anyway,  you'll  find 
him  changed.  This  gentleman  has  consented  to  perform  the 
necessary  ceremony  that  will  mark,  I  hope,  the  beginning  of 
a  happier  and  a  brighter  time  for  both  of  us." 

She  did  not  reply. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  sensible,  Joan  ?  I'm  trying  to  do  the 
right  thing  by  you.  You're  absolutely  alone  here,  and  there  is 
nobody  within  a  hundred  miles  who'd  raise  their  hand  if  I 
killed  you." 

"When  do  you  wish "  she  hesitated. 

"To-day,  immediately,"  he  said. 

She  was  panic-stricken. 

"You  must  give  me  time  to  think  this  matter  over,  Mr. 
Hamon,"  she  said.  "To-morrow " 

"To-day,"  he  insisted.  "I'm  not  going  to  let  another  day 
pass.  I  think  I  know  my  friend  Sadi  Hafiz.  Sadi  has  enough  re- 
spect for  the  law  and  the  sanctity  of  married  life,"  he  sneered, 
"to  leave  you  alone  if  you're  married.  But  if  I  wait  until  to- 
morrow  "  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

But  there  was  no  yielding  in  her  determined  face. 

"I  absolutely  refuse  to  marry  you."  she  said,  "and  if  Mr. 
Bannockwaite  has  a  lingering  remnant  of  decency  he  will  re- 
fuse to  perform  the  ceremony." 

"You  can  make  up  your  mind  on  one  point,"  said  Hamon, 
"that  he  hasn't  even  the  dregs  of  decency.  You'd  better  meet 
him.  He  is  more  or  less  exhilarated  now  and  is  more  bearable 
than  he  will  be." 

In  the  morning  sunlight,  Aylmer  Bannockwaite  looked  even 
more  horrible  than  he  had  in  the  kindly  blue  of  the  dusk.  She 
shuddered.  It  seemed  as  though  some  horrible  incarnation  of 
evil  had  come  into  the  room  as  he  strutted  forward  with  his 
plump  hand  outstretched. 


THE  MARRIAGE  29$ 

"It  is  my  dear  little  Carston  girl !"  he  said  jovially.  "Wett\ 
this  is  the  most  amazing  coincidence — that  I  should  marry 
you  twice  is  an  especial  privilege !" 

One  glance  she  gave  at  his  face  and  shuddered.  There- 
after, she  never  looked  beyond  the  second  button  of  his 
stained  waistcoat. 

"I  am  not  going  to  be  married,  Mr.  Bannockwaite.  I  want 
you  to  understand  that  distinctly ;  if  you  marry  me,  it  is  against 
my  will." 

"Tut,  tut !"  said  Bannockwaite  loudly.  "This  will  never  do. 
A  shy  bride !  'Standing  with  reluctant  feet  where  the  brook  and 
river  meet,'  eh?  God  bless  my  life!  Marriage  is  the  natural 

state  of  mankind.  It  has  ever  been  a  matter  for  regret  to 
,__         » 
me 

"I  won't  marry  him,  I  won't,  I  won't,"  she  flamed.  "If  I  am 
to  be  married,  I'll  be  married  decently  by  a  clean  man  to  a  clean 
man !" 

She  stood  erect,  her  eyes  blazing,  her  finger  outstretched 
in  accusation. 

"I  know  you  now.  You  look  what  you  are,  what  you  always 
have  been,  and  all  your  posturing  and  posing  does  not  disguise 
you.  You  are  corruption  in  human  form — Ada  called  you  'The 
Beast  with  the  silver  tongue/  and  she  was  right." 

That  was  her  curious  and  hateful  gift — to  touch  the  raw 
places  of  human  vanity.  The  man's  thick  underlip  stuck  out ; 
there  was  an  insane  fury  in  his  eyes  that  momentarily  fright- 
ened her. 

"You  Jezebel !"  he  boomed.  "I'll  marry  you,  if  they  hang  me 
for  it !  And  it  will  be  legal  and  binding  on  you,  woman !  I  pos- 
ture, do  I  ?  I  pose  ?  You,  you " 

Hamon  gripped  his  arm. 

"Steady,"  he  whispered,  and  then,  to  the  girl :  "Now,  Joan, 
what  is  the  use  of  this  foolishness  ?  He  was  good  enough  a  par- 
son to  marry  you  before." 

"I  won't  marry  you,  I  won't!"  She  stamped  her  foot.  "I 
would  sooner  marry  the  beggar  I  saw  on  the  roadside.  I'd 
sooner  marry  the  meanest  slave  in  your  household  than  marry 


294  THE  BLACK 

you,  a  thief  and  a  murderer — a  man  to  whom  no  crime  is  too 
mean.  I'd  rather  marry " 

"A  burglar  ?"  he  said,  white  with  passion. 

"Ten  thousand  times  yes — if  you  mean  Jim  Morlake.  I  love 
him,  Hamon.  I'll  go  on  loving  him  till  I  die !" 

"You  will,  will  you?"  he  muttered.  And  then,  turning,  he 
ran  out  of  the  room,  leaving  her  alone  with  the  clergyman. 

"How  can  you,  Mr.  Bannockwaite  ?  How  have  you  brought 
yourself  to  this  low  level?"  she  asked  sternly.  "Is  there  noth- 
ing in  you  that  is  wholesome  to  which  a  woman  could  appeal  ?" 

"I  don't  want  the  heads  of  a  sermon  from  you,"  he  growled. 
"I  will  have  you  understand  that  I  am  intellectually  your  su- 
perior, socially  your  equal " 

"And  morally  the  mud  under  my  feet,"  she  said  scornfully. 

For  a  moment  she  thought  he  would  strike  her.  His  bloated 
face  grew  first  purple  with  passion,  then  faded  to  a  pasty  white. 

"Intellectually  your  superior  and  socially  your  equal,"  he 
muttered  again.  "I  am  superior  to  your  insults.  Telum  imbelle 
sine  ictu!" 

And  then  came  a  half -mad  Hamon,  dragging  behind  him  a 
man,  at  the  sight  of  whom  Joan  reeled  backward.  It  was  the 
beggar,  a  grinning,  fawning  toothless  old  man,  horrible  to  look 
upon  as  he  came  cringing  into  this  lovely  room. 

"Here  is  your  husband !"  almost  shrieked  the  demented  man. 
"Look  at  him !  You'd  sooner  marry  a  beggar,  would  you,  damn 
you !  Well,  you  shall  marry  him  and  you  shall  have  the  desert 
for  your  honeymoon !" 

She  looked  from  the  beggar  to  Bannockwaite  and,  even  in 
her  distress,  she  could  not  help  thinking  that  she  had  never 
seen  two  more  hideous  men  in  her  life. 

"Get  your  book,  Bannockwaite!"  yelled  Hamon.  He  was 
frothing  at  the  mouth,  so  utterly  beside  himself  that  he  seemed 
inhuman. 

From  his  pocket,  Bannockwaite  produced  a  small  book  and 
opened  it. 

"You'll  want  witnesses,"  he  said,  and  again  Hamon  dashed 
out,  returning  with  half-a-dozen  servants. 

And  there,  under  the  curious  eyes  of  the  tittering  Moors. 


THE  BEGGAR  HUSBAND  295 

Lady  Joan  Carston  was  married  to  Abdul  Azim.  Hamon  mut- 
tered something  in  Arabic  to  the  man,  and  then  the  girl  felt 
herself  caught  by  the  arm  and  pulled  and  led  through  the  hall 
into  the  garden. 

Hamon  dragged  her  to  the  open  gates  and  flung  her  out  with 
such  violence  that  she  nearly  fell. 

"Take  your  husband  back  to  Creith !"  he  howled.  "By  God, 
you'll  be  glad  to  come  back  to  me !" 


CHAPTER    LXI 
The  Beggar  Husband 

HAMON  pushed  the  beggar  out  after  his  bride  and  slammed  the 
gate  on  him. 

Joan  tried  to  walk,  stumbled,  recovered  again,  and  then  she 
knew  no  more.  She  recovered  from  her  faint,  lying  under  the 
shadow  of  a  big  juniper  bush.  Her  face  and  neck  were  wet ;  a 
bowl  of  water  was  by  her  side.  The  old  beggar  had  disappeared, 
and,  raising  herself  on  her  elbow,  she  saw  him  unhobbling  his 
sorry-looking  horse.  What  should  she  do  ?  She  came  unsteadily 
to  her  feet  and  looked  round  wildly.  Escape  was  impossible. 

And  then  she  saw,  far  away  in  the  valley,  a  cloud  of  dust. 
A  party  was  approaching,  and,  straining  her  eyes,  she  caught 
sight  of  white  jellabs  and  the  glint  of  steel.  It  was  a  party  of 
Moors,  probably  Sadi  Hafiz  returning — there  would  be  no 
help  there. 

She  looked  again  at  her  husband.  The  old  man  was  wrapping 
his  face  and  head  in  voluminous  scarves,  until  only  his  iron- 
grey  beard  and  the  tip  of  his  red  hooked  nose  were  visible. 

He  saw  her  and  came  toward  her,  leading  the  horse,  and  she 
obeyed  his  signal  without  a  word,  and  mounted.  Walking 
ahead  he  kept  his  hand  on  the  bridle  and  she  noticed  that  he  took 
a  path  that  was  at  right  angles  to  the  main  road  to  Tangier. 


296  THE  BLACK 

Once  or  twice  he  looked  back,  first  at  the  house  and  then  the 
swift-moving  party  of  horsemen  which  were  now  in  view.  It 
was  Sadi — Joan  recognised  the  figure  riding  at  the  head  of 
the  party.  And  she  saw,  too,  that  each  man  carried  a  rifle. 

Suddenly  the  beggar  changed  direction,  moved  parallel  with 
the  cavalcade,  as  far  as  she  could  guess,  for  they  were  now  out 
of  sight  and  mounting  the  hill  toward  a  point  which  would 
bring  them  clear  of  the  gardens.  From  the  anxious  glances  he 
shot  backward,  she  guessed  that  he  was  in  some  fear  lest 
Hamon,  in  a  saner  moment,  had  relented  his  mad  folly.  He 
walked  the  horse  down  to  the  bed  of  a  hill  stream  and  foV- 
lowed  its  tortuous  windings,  keeping  the  horse  in  the  shal- 
low waters.  Suddenly  she  heard  a  shot,  and  then  another.  The 
sound  re-echoed  from  the  hills,  and  she  looked  down  at  the 
old  man  anxiously. 

"What  was  that  ?"  she  asked  in  Spanish. 

He  shook  his  head  without  looking  round. 

Again  came  a  shot,  and  then  she  guessed  the  reason.  The 
shots  were  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  beggar  and  to  recall 
him,  and  he  evidently  had  the  same  view,  for  he  jerked  the 
reins  of  the  horse  and  the  animal  broke  into  a  trot,  the  beggar 
running  nimbly  by  his  animal's  head. 

They  came  to  a  little  wood  of  pines  and  he  brought  the  horse 
up  the  steep  slope  into  its  cover,  and,  signalling  her  to  wait,  he 
went  back  on  foot.  It  was  nearly  half-an-hour  before  he  re- 
turned, and  then,  holding  up  his  hand,  he  lifted  her  from  the 
saddle  and  she  closed  her  eyes  that  she  might  not  see  his  face. 
After  a  time  he  brought  her  water  from  the  stream,  and  open- 
ing a  little  bundle,  displayed  food,  but  she  was  too  tired  to  do 
any  more  than  drink  the  cold,  refreshing  liquid.  So  tired,  that, 
when  she  lay  down  upon  the  rug  he  spread,  she  forgot  her 
terrible  danger,  forgot  the  trick  of  fate  that  had  made  her 
the  wife  of  a  beggar  and  fell  instantly  into  a  sound  and  dream- 
less sleep. 

Ralph  Hamon  sat,  crouched  in  his  bedroom,  his  nails  at  his 
teeth,  feeling  weak  and  ill.  The  mad  gust  of  temper  that  had 
driven  him  to  such  an  act  of  lunacy  had  passed,  leaving  him 
shaking  in  every  limb.  From  his  window  he  could  see  the 


THE  BEGGAR  HUSBAND  297 

gar  carrying  the  girl  down  the  hill,  and  at  the  sight  he  started 
to  his  feet  with  a  hoarse  cry  of  rage.  That  folly  could  be 
remedied  and  quickly. 

There  was  a  man  amongst  his  servants  who  had  been  his 
pensioner  for  years,  an  old  man,  grizzled  and  grey,  and  he  sent 
for  him. 

"Ahab,"  he  said,  "you  know  the  beggar  who  rides  the 
horse  ?" 

"Yes,  lord." 

"He  has  taken  with  him  at  this  moment  the  lady  of  my 
heart.  Go  bring  her  back  and  give  the  old  man  this  money." 
He  took  a  handful  of  notes  from  his  pocket  and  put  them 
into  the  eager  palm  of  his  servitor.  "If  he  gives  you  trouble — 
kill  him." 

Ralph  went  up  to  his  bedroom  to  watch  his  emissary  go 
through  the  gates,  and  then  for  the  first  time  he  saw  the  party 
of  mounted  men  winding  their  way  up  the  hillside. 

"Sadi,"  he  said  under  his  breath  and  guessed  what  that  visit 
signified. 

It  was  too  late  to  recall  his  messenger  and  he  ran  down  to 
the  gates  to  welcome  his  some-time  agent.  Sadi  Hafiz  threw 
himself  from  his  horse  and  his  tone  and  mien  were  changed. 
He  was  no  longer  the  polite  and  polished  product  of  the  mission 
school.  He  was  the  Moorish  chieftain,  insolent,  overbearing, 
unsmiling. 

"You  know  why  I've  come,  Hamon,"  he  said,  his  hands  on 
his  hips,  his  feet  apart,  his  big  head  thrust  forward.  "Where  is 
the  girl  ?  I  want  her.  I  presume  you  are  not  married,  but,  if 
you  are,  it  makes  very  little  difference." 

"I  am  not  married,"  said  Hamon,  "but  she  is !" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

He  was  not  left  long  in  doubt. 

"My  lady  expressed  a  preference  for  a  beggar.  She  said 
she  would  rather  marry  the  old  man  who  asked  for  alms  than 
marry  me — her  wish  has  been  fulfilled." 

Sadi's  eyes  were  slits. 

"They  were  married  half-an-hour  ago  and  are  there."  He 
took  in  the  country  with  a  gesture. 


298  THE  BLACK 

"You're  lying,  Hamon,"  said  the  other  steadily.  "That  story 
doesn't  deceive  me.  I  shall  search  your  house  as  Morlake 
searched  mine." 

Hamon  said  nothing.  There  were  twenty  armed  men  behind 
Sadi  and  at  a  word  from  their  leader  he  was  a  dead  man. 

"You're  at  liberty  to  search  the  house  from  harem  to 
kitchen,"  he  said  coolly,  and  the  Moor  strode  past  him. 

He  could  not  have  had  time  to  make  a  very  complete  in- 
spection, for  he  was  back  again  almost  immediately. 

"I've  spoken  to  your  servants,  who  tell  me  that  what  you 
have  said  is  true.  Which  way  did  she  go  ?" 

Hamon  pointed  and  the  Moor  gave  an  order  to  his  men. 
One  of  the  horsemen  fired  in  the  air.  A  second  and  a  third  shot 
followed. 

"If  that  does  not  bring  him  back  we  will  go  and  look  for 
him,"  said  Sadi  grimly. 

"So  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  Ralph  shrugged  his  shoulders 
— "you  may  do  as  you  wish.  My  interest  in  the  lady  has  evapo- 
rated." 

He  was  not  speaking  the  truth,  but  his  manner  deceived  the 
Moor. 

"You  were  a  fool  to  let  her  go,"  he  said  more  mildly. 

"If  I  hadn't  let  her  go,  you  would  probably  have  persuaded 
me,"  said  Hamon,  and  Sadi's  slow  smile  confirmed  his  sus- 
picion. 

A  minute  later  the  party  was  riding  down  the  hill,  scattering 
left  and  right  in  an  endeavour  to  pick  up  the  trail  of  the  beg- 
gar and  his  wife.  Hamon  watched  them  before  he  returned  to 
the  house,  to  gather  the  pieces  of  his  scattered  dreams  and  dis- 
cover which  of  the  fragments  had  a  solid  value. 

From  an  inside  pocket  he  took  a  black  leather  case  and, 
emptying  the  contents,  laid  them  on  the  table  and  examined 
them  one  by  one.  The  last  of  these  possessions  was  an  oblong 
document,  covered  with  fine  writing.  Hindhead  seemed  far 
away — Hindhead  and  Jim  Morlake  and  the  prying  Welling, 
and  Creith,  with  its  avenues  and  meadowlands.  He  knew  the 
document  by  heart,  but  he  read  it  again : 


THE  BEGGAR  HUSBAND  299 

Believing  that  Ralph  Hamon,  who  I  thought  was  my  friend, 
designs  my  death,  I  wish  to  explain  the  circumstances  under 
which  I  find  myself  a  prisoner  in  a  little  house  overlooking 
Hindhead.  Acting  on  the  representations  and  on  the  advice  of 
Hamon,  I  went  to  Morocco  to  inspect  a  mine,  which  I  believed 
to  be  his  property.  We  returned  to  London  secretly,  again  on 
his  advice,  for  he  said  it  would  be  fatal  to  his  plans  if  it  were 
known  that  he  was  transferring  any  of  his  interests  in  the  mine. 
Having  a  suspicion  that  the  property,  which  he  stated  was  his, 
had  in  reality  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  his  company,  I  went 
to  Hindhead,  determined  not  to  part  with  my  money,  until  he 
could  assure  me  that  I  was  mistaken.  I  took  a  precaution  which 
I  believed  and  still  believe  is  effective.  At  Hindhead  my  suspi- 
cions were  confirmed  and  I  refused  to  part  with  the  money.  He 
locked  me  up  in  the  kitchen  under  the  guardianship  of  a  Moor 
whom  he  had  brought  back  from  Tangier  with  him.  An  attempt 
has  already  been  made,  and  I  fear  the  next 

Here  the  writing  ended  abruptly.  He  rolled  up  the  damning 
charge  and,  returning  it  to  his  pocket-book  with  the  other  con- 
tents, slipped  it  into  his  inside  pocket  again.  And,  as  he  did  so, 
he  recalled  Jim  Morlake's  description.  The  monkey's  hand 
was  in  the  gourd  and  he  had  come  to  the  place  where  he  could 
not  release  the  fruit. 

In  the  meantime,  one  of  Sadi's  men  had  picked  up  the  track 
of  footprints,  and  Sadi  and  two  of  the  party  had  reached  the 
edge  of  the  stream. 

"Leave  your  horses  and  come  on  foot,"  he  ordered. 

They  followed  the  course  of  the  stream  downward  until  it 
was  clear  to  the  shereef  that  they  could  not  have  gone  in  that 
direction.  From  thereon,  he  had  a  view  of  the  country.  More- 
over, they  passed  a  particularly  shallow  stretch  with  a  sandy 
bottom  and  there  were  no  marks  of  hoofs. 

"We  will  go  back,"  he  said,  and  led  the  way. 

An  hour's  walk  brought  them  to  a  place  where  the  stream 
ran  between  high  banks,  and  here  the  Moor's  quick  eyes  saw 
the  new  marks  of  horse's  feet,  and  he  signalled  his  men  to 


300  THE  BLACK 

silence.  With  remarkable  agility  he  ran  up  the  bank  and  crept 
forward  .  .  . 

Joan  woke  from  her  sleep  to  meet  the  dark  eyes  of  Sadi 
Hafiz  looking  down  at  her. 

"Where  is  your  friend  ?"  asked  Sadi,  stooping  to  assist  her 
to  her  feet. 

She  looked  round,  still  dazed  with  sleep. 

"My  friend  ?  You  mean  Abdul  ?" 

"So  you  know  his  name,"  said  Sadi  pleasantly. 

"What  do  you  want  with  me  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  taking  you  with  me  to  Tangier,  to  your  friends,"  he 
said,  but  she  knew  he  was  lying. 

Looking  round,  she  saw  no  sign  of  the  beggar.  His  horse 
still  grazed  beneath  a  tree,  but  the  old  man  had  disappeared. 
Sadi  sent  one  of  his  people  to  bring  in  the  animal,  and  helped 
her  to  mount. 

"I  was  terribly  worried,"  he  said  in  his  excellent  English, 
"when  our  friend  Hamon  told  me  the  stupid  thing  he  had  done. 
There  are  times  when  Hamon  is  crazy  and  I  am  very  angry 
with  him.  You  like  Morocco,  Lady  Joan  ?" 

"Not  very  much,"  she  said,  and  he  chuckled. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  do."  He  looked  up  at  her  admiringly. 
"How  well  the  Moorish  costume  suits  you !  It  might  have  been 
designed  for  your  adornment." 

A  trick  he  had  of  using  pretentious  words  that  would  at  any 
other  time  have  amused  her.  He  walked  by  her  side,  one  of  his 
riflemen  leading  the  horse,  and  after  a  while  they  came  to  a 
place  where  they  had  taken  the  stream.  The  remainder  of  his 
party  were  waiting  for  him,  sitting  on  the  bank,  and  at  a  sig- 
nal they  mounted. 

"Perhaps  it  is  as  well  I  did  not  meet  your  husband,"  said 
Sadi  ominously.  "I  trust  he  has  not  given  you  any  trouble?" 

She  was  not  in  the  mood  for  conversation  and  she  answered 
curtly  enough  and  he  seemed  amused.  No  time  was  lost.  She 
was  lifted  from  the  beggar's  horse  to  a  beautiful  roan  that  had 
evidently  been  brought  specially  for  her  and  she  could  not 
help  reflecting  on  the  certainty  that,  even  if  Ralph  had  married 
her,  she  would  still  have  ridden  on  that  horse  before  the  day 


THE  BEGGAR  HUSBAND  301 

was  through.  Sadi  Hafiz  had  come  to  take  her  back  with  him 
to  his  little  house  in  the  hollow,  married  or  unmarried. 

He  rode  by  her  side  most  of  the  day,  talking  pleasantly  of 
people  and  things,  and  she  was  surprised  at  the  wideness  and 
catholicity  of  his  knowledge. 

"I  was  agent  for  Hamon  in  Tangier,  and  I  suppose  you  have 
an  idea  that  I  was  a  sort  of  superior  servant,"  he  said.  "But 
it  suited  me  to  act  for  him.  He  is  a  man  without  scruple  or 
gratitude." 

That  was  a  sentiment  which  she  thought  came  ill  from  Sadi 
Hafiz. 

Before  sunset  they  halted  and  made  a  camp.  In  spite  of  the 
coldness  of  the  night,  the  men  prepared  to  sleep  in  the  open, 
wrapped  in  their  woollen  cloaks,  but  for  the  girl  a  tent  was 
taken  from  the  pack-horse  and  pitched  in  the  most  sheltered 
position  Sadi  could  find. 

"We  will  rest  here  until  midnight,"  he  said.  "I  must  reach 
my  destination  before  daybreak." 

She  lay  wide  awake,  listening  to  the  talk  and  watching  the 
shadow  of  the  smoking  fires  that  the  sunset  threw  on  the  thin 
walls  of  the  tent,  and  then  the  talk  gradually  died  down.  There 
was  no  sound  but  an  occasional  whinny  from  a  horse.  She 
looked  at  the  watch  on  her  wrist,  the  one  article  of  jewellery 
she  had  retained.  It  was  nine  o'clock.  She  had  three  hours  left 
in  which  she  could  make  her  escape. 

She  drew  aside  the  curtain  of  the  little  tent  and,  looking  out, 
saw  a  dark  figure — a  sentry,  she  guessed.  Escape  was  impossi- 
ble that  way.  She  tried  to  lift  the  curtain  at  the  back  of  the  tent, 
but  it  was  pegged  down  tightly.  Working  her  hand  through  un- 
der the  curtain  she  groped  around  for  the  peg  and  presently 
found  it.  It  took  all  her  power  to  loosen  it,  but  after  a  while, 
with  a  supreme  effort,  she  pulled  it  from  the  earth  and,  exert- 
ing all  her  strength,  she  lifted  the  curtain  a  little  farther  and 
got  her  head  beneath,  and,  by  dint  of  perseverance,  wriggled 
clear. 

Ahead  of  her  were  impenetrable  thorn  bushes.  She  crept 
round  the  outside  of  the  tent,  conscious  that  her  white  dress 
would  be  detected  if  the  sentry  turned  his  head.  And  then  she 


30*  THE  BLACK 

found  an  opening  in  the  undergrowth  and  wriggled  through. 
At  the  sound  of  cracking  twigs  the  sentry  turned  and  shouted 
something  in  Arabic.  And  now,  desperate,  the  girl  rose  to  her 
feet  and  ran.  She  could  hardly  see  a  yard  before  her ;  once  she 
ran  into  a  dwarf  tree  and  fell  momentarily  stunned,  but  was 
on  her  feet  again  immediately.  The  moon  was  just  rising  and 
showed  her  a  sparsely  wooded  stretch  of  plain ;  but  it  also  re- 
vealed her  to  her  pursuers. 

The  camp  was  now  in  an  uproar.  She  heard  shouts  and  the 
bellowing  voice  ef  Sadi  Hafiz,  and  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs. 
It  was  Sadi  himself  who  was  coming  after  her.  She  knew  it  was 
he  without  seeing  him,  and,  terrified,  she  increased  her  speed. 
But  she  could  not  hope  to  outpace  the  horse.  Nearer  and  nearer 
he  came,  and  then  with  a  thunder  of  hoofs  the  horseman  swept 
past  her  and  turned. 

"Oh  no,  my  little  rose !"  he  said  exultantly.  "That  is  not  the 
way  to  happiness !" 

He  reached  over  and  caught  at  her  cloak  and,  swinging 
himself  from  the  saddle,  he  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"This  night  I  live !"  he  cried  hoarsely. 

"This  night  you  die !" 

He  turned  in  a  flash  to  confront  the  aged  beggar  and 
dropped  his  hand  to  the  folds  of  his  jelldb. 

Joan  Carston  stood,  rooted  to  the  spot,  staring  at  the  new- 
comer. She  looked  at  the  hideous  face  of  Abdul  Azim,  but  it 
was  the  voice  of  Jim  Morlake  that  had  spoken ! 


CHAPTER   LXII 
The  Escape 

Two  shots  rang  out  together,  and  Sadi  Hafiz  went  to  his  knees 
with  a  groan  and  fell  sideways. 

"Get  on  to  that  horse,  quick,"  said  Jim,  and  almost  threw 
her  into  the  saddle. 


THE  ESCAPE  303 

He  was  up  behind  her  in  a  second. 

"Jim !"  she  whispered,  and  the  arm  that  encircled  her  in- 
creased its  pressure. 

Burdened  as  he  was,  the  big  horse  strode  out  freely,  and 
Jim,  looking  over  his  shoulder,  saw  that  the  white  figures  that 
had  followed  Sadi  from  the  camp  had  halted  to  succour  their 
fallen  chief. 

"We've  got  ten  minutes'  start  of  them,  anyway,"  he  said, 
"and  with  any  luck  we  ought  to  miss  them." 

Wisely,  he  left  the  direction  to  the  horse,  who  would  know 
the  country,  and  whose  eyes  would  detect  the  pitfalls  and  bar- 
riers in  which  the  plain  abounded.  There  was  no  sign  now  of 
pursuers,  but  Jim  was  without  illusions.  If  Sadi  Hafiz  was 
capable  of  issuing  orders,  there  would  be  no  dropping  of  the 
pursuit.  After  an  hour's  travelling  the  horse  gave  evidence  of 
his  weariness,  and  Jim  dropped  from  the  saddle  and  went  to 
his  head. 

"There  used  to  be  a  guard  house  on  the  coast,"  he  said, 
"though  I  don't  know  that  a  Moorish  guard  is  much  more  com- 
panionable than  the  gentleman  we  have  left  behind." 

She  was  looking  down  at  him,  trying  to  recognise,  in  the  un- 
pleasant face,  one  vestige  of  the  Jim  she  knew. 

"It  is  you?" 

"Oh  yes,  it  is  I,"  he  laughed.  "The  make-up  is  good  ?  It  is 
an  old  character  of  mine,  and  if  Sadi  had  had  the  sense  of  a 
rabbit,  he  would  have  remembered  the  fact.  The  nose  is  the 
difficulty,"  he  added  ruefully.  "The  wax  gets  warm  in  the  sun 
and  has  to  be  remodelled,  but  the  rest  is  easy." 

"But  you  have  no  teeth,"  she  said,  catching  a  glimpse  of  the 
black  cavity  of  his  mouth. 

"They're  there,  somewhere,"  he  said  carelessly.  "A  tooth- 
brush and  a  cake  of  soap  will  make  a  whole  lot  of  difference  to 
me,  Joan." 

He  heard  her  gasp. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"Nothing,"  she  said,  and  then :  "How  funny !" 

"If  your  sense  of  humour  is  returning,  my  young  friend, 
you're  on  the  high  road  to  safety!" 


304  THE  BLACK 

Before  daybreak  they  halted  near  a  spring  and  unsaddled 
and  watered  the  horse. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can  give  you  nothing  to  eat,"  said  Jim.  "The 
only  thing  I  can  do " 

He  stripped  off  his  jellab  and  unfastened  his  ragged  shirt 
and  produced  from  a  pocket  a  small  waterproof  bag  and  car- 
ried it  to  the  stream. 

He  went  down  a  hideous  old  man ;  he  came  back  Jim  Mor- 
lake,  and  she  could  only  sit  and  look  at  him. 

"This  is  a  dream,"  she  said  decidedly.  "I  shall  wake  up 
presently  and  find  myself "  she  shuddered. 

"You'll  hardly  be  any  more  awake  than  you  are  at  this  mo- 
ment," said  Jim.  "We  are  within  two  miles  of  the  coast,  and 
unless  friend  Sadi  has  given  very  emphatic  orders,  his  men 
will  not  follow  us  to  the  guard-house." 

His  estimate  proved  to  be  correct ;  they  did  not  see  a  white 
cloak  again,  and  reached  the  guard-house  to  find  it  in  charge, 
as  Jim  had  suspected,  of  a  Spanish  officer ;  for  they  had 
reached  that  territory  which  Spain  regarded  as  within  the 
sphere  of  her  influence. 

"From  here,  we  shall  have  to  follow  the  coast-line  and  take 
a  chance,"  said  Jim,  after  interviewing  the  officer.  "The  Span- 
iards can't  give  us  an  escort  to  Tangier  for  political  reasons 
— the  French  are  rather  jealous  of  their  neighbours  crossing 
the  line,  but  I  don't  think  we  shall  be  molested." 

They  made  camp  that  night  almost  within  view  of  the  lights 
of  Tangier.  Jim  had  borrowed  blankets  from  the  Spanish  out- 
post and  spread  them  for  the  girl  under  the  ruin  of  an  old 
Moorish  post. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  as  he  bade  her  good-night,  before 
retiring  himself  to  the  windy  side  of  the  wall,  "this  morning, 
you  said  something  was  very  funny — what  was  it  ?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  tell  you,"  said  Joan  firmly. 

As  she  settled  down  to  sleep,  she  wondered  whether  the  cere- 
mony of  the  morning  had  been  legal  and  binding — and  ferv- 
ently hoped  that  it  had. 


THE  END  OF  SADI  305 

CHAPTER   LXIII 

The  End  of  Sadi 

THEY  brought  Sadi  Hafiz  to  the  house  on  the  hill  and  the  jour- 
ney was  a  long  one  for  a  man  with  a  bullet  in  his  shoulder.  The 
first  news  Ralph  had  of  the  happening  was  a  thundering  knock 
at  the  gates  which  roused  him  from  a  fitful  sleep  and  sent  him 
to  his  window. 

The  gates  were  locked  and  barred  and  could  not  be  opened 
without  his  permission.  He  saw  the  gleam  of  lanterns  outside, 
and  presently  a  shrill  voice  called  him  by  name  and  he  knew 
it  was  Sadi.  Hurrying  downstairs,  he  joined  the  suspicious 
gatekeeper,  who  was  parleying  through  the  barred  wicket. 

"Let  them  enter,"  he  said,  and  himself  lifted  one  of  the  bars. 

A  glance  at  Sadi  told  him  that  something  serious  had  hap- 
pened and  he  assisted  the  wounded  man  into  the  house. 

"Allah,  I  am  finished !"  groaned  Sadi.  "That  pig.  If  that 
pistol  had  not  caught  in  the  folds  of  my  cloak  he  would  have 
been  in  hell  to-night !" 

Hamon  sent  for  a  woman  and  in  the  meantime  examined  the 
wound. 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  Sadi  roughly.  "The  last  time  he  shot 
me  was  more  serious." 

"The  last  time  he  shot  you?"  repeated  Hamon  dully. 

Sadi  had  noticed  a  peculiar  development  in  the  man,  which 
was  not  altogether  explained  in  his  changed  appearance.  He 
seemed  to  be  thinking  of  something  so  intently  that  he  had  no 
time  to  interest  himself  in  the  events  of  the  moment. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Hamon,  coming  out  of  his  reverie.  "You 
were  saying  ...  ?" 

"I  was  saying  that  the  last  time  he  shot  me  was  more  seri- 
ous." 

"Who  shot  you,  anyway?"  asked  Hamon.  "Not  the  beg- 
gar?" 


306  THE  BLACK 

"The  beggar,"  repeated  the  other  grimly. 

Here  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  the 
woman  whom  the  Moorish  girl  had  called  Sefiora  Hamon.  She 
carried  a  large  bowl  of  water  and  cloths  and  Hamon  watched 
her  unseeingly  while  she  dressed  the  wound.  When  she  had 
gone,  he  took  up  the  thread  of  the  conversation. 

"I  never  thought  he  would  do  you  much  harm,"  he  said,  "he 
is  very  old  and  feeble — you  did  not  tell  me  that  you  knew  him." 

"I  did  not  know  that  I  knew  him,"  replied  the  Moor,  "or 
that  you  knew  him.  But  Mr.  Morlake  is  an  old  enemy  of  mine  I" 

With  a  start  Hamon  came  to  himself. 

"You  were  speaking  about  the  beggar,  weren't  you  ?"  he  said, 
frowning.  "I'm  so  rattled  and  muddled  to-night.  You  were 
talking  of  the  old  beggar  man,  Abdul." 

"I'm  talking  about  Mr.  Morlake,"  said  the  other  between 
his  teeth.  "The  gentleman  you  so  considerately  married  to 
your  woman  this  morning !" 

"Oh !"  said  Hamon  blankly. 

The  tidings  were  too  tremendous  for  him  to  take  im.  He 
passed  his  hand  wearily  before  his  eyes. 

"I  don't  get  it,"  he  said  haltingly.  "The  beggar  was  Mor- 
lake, you  say  ?  But  how  could  he  be  ?  He  was  an  old  man " 

"If  I'd  had  the  eyes  of  a  mole,"  said  the  other  bitterly,  "I'd 
have  known  it  was  Morlake.  It  was  his  favourite  disguise  when 
he  was  in  the  Intelligence  Service  in  Morocco." 

Hamon  sat  down  on  the  divan  where  the  man  was  lying. 

"The  beggar  was  Morlake,"  he  said  stupidly.  "Let  me  get 
that  in  my  mind.  And  I  married  them !" 

He  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter  and  Sadi,  with  his  knowledge 
of  men,  saw  how  near  his  host  was  to  a  breakdown.  Presently 
he  calmed  himself. 

"Did  he  get  her?  Of  course  he  did.  He  took  her  from  you 
and  shot  you.  Oh  God !  What  a  fool  I  was !" 

"He  hates  you,"  said  the  Moor  after  a  long  interval  of  si- 
lence. "What  is  behind  it  ?" 

"He  wants  something  I  have — that  is  behind  it."  The  flushed 
face  and  the  slurred  voice  aroused  Sadi's  suspicion.  Had  the 
man  been  drinking  ?" 


THE  END  OF  SADI  307 

As  though  he  read  Sadi's  mind,  Hamon  said : 

"You  think  I'm  drunk,  don't  you,  but  I'm  not.  I  was  never 

more  sober.  I'm  just "  he  hesitated  to  find  a  word,  "well,  I 

feel  differently,  that  is  all." 

He  made  one  of  his  abrupt  exits,  leaving  Sadi  to  nurse  his 
wound  and  to  ponder  on  a  development  which  brought  almost 
as  much  unease  to  his  mind  as  did  his  wound  to  his  body. 
Hamon  must  go,  he  decided  coldbloodedly.  If  it  was  true  that 
there  was  an  English  police  officer  looking  for  him  in  Tangier, 
then  the  policeman  must  have  his  prey.  Only  in  that  way  could 
Sadi  be  rehabilitated  in  the  eyes  of  his  many  employers.  Hamon 
had  ceased  to  be  profitable ;  was  nearing  the  end  of  his  finan- 
cial tether.  The  shrewd  Moor  weighed  up  the  situation  with  un- 
erring judgment.  He  did  not  sleep,  his  shoulder  was  too 
painful ;  and  soon  after  sunrise  he  went  in  search  of  his  host. 

Hamon  was  in  the  room  that  the  girl  had  occupied.  He  at 
any  rate  had  found  forgetfulness,  and  on  the  table,  where  his 
head  rested  on  folded  arms,  was  an  open  pocket-book  and  a 
scatter  of  papers.  Sadi  examined  them  furtively. 

There  were  half  a  dozen  negotiable  bank  drafts,  made  out  to 
"Mr.  Jackson  Brown,"  and  there  was  also  a  white  paper  folded 
in  four  .  .  . 

Hamon  awakened  and  lifted  his  head  slowly.  The  Moor  was 
reading,  and: 

"That  is  mine,  when  you've  done  with  it,"  said  Hamon. 

In  no  way  disconcerted,  Sadi  dropped  the  papers  on  the  table. 

"So  that  is  it?  I  wondered  what  you  were  scared  of.  You're 
a  fool ;  that  paper  would  hang  you.  Why  don't  you  burn  it  ?" 

"Who  told  you  to  read  it?"  asked  the  other  and  his  eyes 
were  like  live  coals.  "Who  asked  you  to  sneak  in  here  and  spy 
on  me,  Sadi  ?" 

"You're  a  fool.  I'm  in  pain  and  bored.  I  came  in  to  talk  to 
you,  expecting  to  find  you  in  bed." 

Ralph  was  slowly  gathering  his  property  together. 

"It  was  my  fault,  for  leaving  it  around,"  he  said.  "Now  you 
know." 

Sadi  nodded. 

"Why  don't  vou  destroy  it  ?"  he  asked. 


308  THE  BLACK 

"Because  I  won't,  I  won't !"  snarled  the  other,  and  pushed  the 
case  savagely  into  his  pocket. 

H*1  followed  Sadi  with  his  eyes  as  the  Moor  strolled  out  of 
the  room  ana  sat  motionless,  staring  at  the  door  and  fingering 
his  lip. 

Toward  the  evening,  he  saw  one  of  Sadi's  men  mount  his 
horse,  and,  leading  another,  go  down  the  hillside.  That  could 
only  mean  one  thing:  the  messenger  was  riding  to  Tangier 
without  drawing  rein  except  to  change  his  horse.  And  he  could 
only  be  riding  to  Tangier  on  one  errand.  Ralph  Hamon 
chuckled.  For  some  reason  the  discovery  afforded  him  intense 
amusement.  Sadi  Hafiz  was  saving  his  own  skin  at  his  expense. 
In  two  days — to-morrow  perhaps — authorisation  would  come 
through  from  the  Sultan's  representative,  and  he,  Ralph 
Hamon,  would  be  seized  by  the  man  whom  he  had  befriended, 
and  carried  into  Tangier,  there  to  be  extradited  to  stand  his 
trial  for — what? 

He  drew  a  long  whistling  breath.  His  hand  unconsciously 
touched  the  case  in  his  pocket.  There  were  no  safes  to  hide  it 
there,  no  strong  boxes,  and  yet  a  match,  one  of  a  hundred  from 
a  ten-centimos  box,  would  relieve  him  of  all  danger.  And  he 
did  not,  would  not,  could  not  burn  the  accursed  thing.  He  was 
well  enough  acquainted  with  himself  to  know  that  he  was 
physically  incapable  of  that  last  drastic  act. 

At  the  back  of  the  house  were  his  own  stables,  and  the 
grooms'  quarters.  He  strolled  round  casually  and  called  the 
head  groom  to  him. 

"I'm  going  on  a  journey  to-night,  but  it  is  secret.  You  will 
bring  your  horse  and  mine  to  the  river  where  the  road  crosses 
- — we'll  go  to  the  coast  and  afterward  into  Spanish  territory. 
There  is  a  thousand  pesetas  for  you  and  yet  another  thousand 
if  you  are  a  discreet  man." 

"Lord,  you  have  sewn  up  my  mouth  with  threads  of  gold," 
said  the  man  poetically. 

Hamon  went  into  Sadi's  room  to  take  dinner  with  him  and 
was  unusually  cheerful. 

"Do  you  think  they  will  reach  Tangier  ?"  he  asked. 

"That  is  certain,'*  said  Sadi,  "but  I  have  as  good  a  tale  as  any 


THE  END  OF  SADI  309 

I  told  her  I  was  taking  her  back  to  her  friends.  I  did  not  harm 
her  in  any  way  and  I  think  I  will  be  able  to  satisfy  the  con- 
sulate that  the  young  lady  was  alarmed  for  no  good  reason. 
The  beggar  I  shot  at — why  ?  Because  I  do  not  know  that  he  is 
Mr.  Morlake.  To  me  he  is  an  evil  old  thief  from  whom  I  am 
rescuing  the  lady.  Yes,  the  consulates  will  accept  my  story." 

"And  do  you  think  /  shall  be  able  to  satisfy  the  consulates?" 
asked  Hamon,  fixing  his  blazing  eyes  on  the  wounded  man. 

Sadi  shrugged  his  shoulder  and  winced  with  the  pain  of  it. 

"You  are  a  rich  man  and  powerful,"  he  said  diplomatically. 
"I  am  a  poor  Moor,  at  the  mercy  of  foreigners.  To-morrow  I 
will  go  back  to  Tangier,"  he  said,  "and  you  ?" 

"To-morrow  I  also  may  go  to  Tangier,"  said  Hamon,  not 
moving  his  eyes  from  the  other,  and  he  saw  him  shift  uncom- 
fortably. 

"These  things  are  with  God,"  said  the  philosophical  Sadi. 

The  household  went  to  bed  early.  Sadi's  men  had  been  ac- 
commodated within  the  walls — a  course  which  satisfied  their 
chieftain.  Midnight  was  striking  on  the  little  clock  in  the 
drawing-room  when  Hamon,  dressed  for  riding,  and  wearing 
a  thick  coat  that  reached  to  his  knees,  came  down  the  stone 
stairs  to  the  hall.  He  wore  rubbers  over  his  shoes  and  made  no 
sound  as,  creeping  to  the  door  of  the  room  where  Sadi  was 
sleeping,  he  turned  the  handle  softly.  Only  a  candle  burnt  to 
give  light  to  the  sick  man  and  Hamon  stood,  listening  in  the 
open  doorway,  till  he  heard  the  regular  breathing  of  the  sleeper. 
Then  he  drew  a  long,  straight  knife  from  his  pocket  and  went 
into  the  room.  He  was  only  there  a  few  minutes,  and  then  the 
candle  was  extinguished  and  he  came  out. 

He  rode  hard  for  two  hours  and  halted  whilst  his  groom 
heated  some  water  and  prepared  a  meal,  and  in  the  light  of  the 
dancing  fire,  the  man  said  in  alarm : 

"Lord,  there  is  blood  on  your  sleeve  and  on  your  hands." 

"That  is  nothing,"  said  Hamon  calmly.  "This  morning  a  dog 
of  my  house  would  have  bitten  me,  so  I  killed  him." 


3io  THE  BLACK 

CHAPTER   LXIV 
A  Moorish  Woman's  Return 

SUNLIGHT  bathed  Tangier  in  a  yellow  flood,  the  surface  of  the 
bay  was  a  mass  of  glittering  gold ;  and  all  that  could  please  the 
eye  was  there  for  their  admiration ;  but  the  two  elderly  men 
who  leant  over  the  balustrade  of  the  terrace  saw  no  beauty  in 
the  scene ;  for  the  heart  of  one  was  breaking,  and  Welling's 
ached  in  sympathy. 

The  Cadiz  mail  was  in  the  bay,  a  black,  long- funnelled 
steamer,  that  at  that  moment  was  taking  on  the  passengers 
who  had  been  rowed  out  from  the  quay. 

"I  told  her  I  couldn't  come  down  to  see  her  off,  so  she  won't 
be  very  much  disappointed,"  said  Welling. 

" Who PLydia  Hamon?" 

Welling  nodded. 

"She'll  be  glad  to  see  the  last  of  Tangier."  A  pause.  "That 
girl  has  the  makings  of  a  good  woman." 

"All  women  have,"  said  Lord  Creith  quietly.  "At  least,  that 
has  been  my  experience." 

Welling  sniffed  sceptically. 

"There  is  no  news,  I  suppose  ?" 

Lord  Creith  shook  his  head.  His  eyes  wandered  to  the  stately 
yacht  that  lay  at  anchor  in  the  bay. 

"You'll  wait  here  until  you  hear  something?"  suggested 
Welling. 

"I  suppose  so,"  listlessly.  "And  you  ?" 

"My  work  is  practically  done,"  said  Welling,  pulling 
thoughtfully  at  his  cigar.  "I  came  out  to  get  the  beginnings  of 
Hamon,  and  I've  pretty  well  cleaned  up  the  obscurity  of  his 
start.  He  was  a  floater  of  fake  companies,  and  was  moderately 
successful  until  he  brought  a  strange  Englishman  out  here,  a 
man  of  some  wealth.  They  lived  at  the  house  of  Sadi  Hafiz  and 
were  here  together  for  about  a  fortnight,  when  the  English- 
man and  Hamon  left  together.  I  have  discovered  that  the 


A  MOORISH  WOMAN'S  RETURN       311 

stranger  paid  him  a  very  considerable  sum  of  money — I  have 
been  round  to  the  Credit  Lyonnais,  who  have  turned  up  the 
records.  The  transaction  is  very  clear ;  the  sum  paid  was  fifty 
thousand  pounds  on  account." 

"On  account  of  what?"  asked  Lord  Creith,  interested  in 
spite  of  his  trouble. 

"That  is  what  I  want  to  know.  Apparently  a  still  larger  sum 
was  to  be  paid,  but  it  certainly  did  not  go  into  Hamon's  ac- 
count here." 

"You  don't  know  the  name  of  this  mysterious  Englishman?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't,  but  I  guess  the  money  was  paid.  I  should  say  the 
final  payment  was  made  in  the  vicinity  of  Hindhead — if  I  could 
only  be  sure  of  that,  Hamon  would  not  show  his  nose  in  Tan- 
gier again." 

"He  won't  anyway,"  said  Creith  bitterly.  "By  heavens, 
Welling,  if  the  government  of  this  infernal  country  doesn't  do 
something  by  to-morrow,  I'm  going  to  raise  an  expedition  and 
go  into  the  interior  to  find  my  girl !  And  the  day  I  meet  Ralph 
Hamon  will  be  his  last !" 

Welling  sucked  at  his  cigar,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  sunlit 
waters. 

"If  Jim  Morlake  can't  find  her,  you  won't,"  he  said. 

"Where  has  he  gone  ?"  wailed  Creith.  "It  is  the  uncertainty 
about  him  that  is  holding  me  back." 

"Nobody  knows.  That  English  dope-fiend  that  lives  at  the 
tailor's  where,  I  have  discovered,  Morlake  has  a  room,  has 
been  away  from  Tangier  for  two  days.  He  came  back  last  night. 
I've  got  a  feeling  that  he's  in  the  business,  but  when  I  tried  to 
talk  with  him,  he  was  too  sleepy  to  snore !" 

Two  people  were  riding  along  the  beach  toward  the  town. 
They  were  less  than  half-a-mile  away,  but  were  conspicuous  by 
reason  of  their  unseemly  animation. 

"You  don't  often  see  a  Moorish  man  and  woman  carrying 
on  a  bright  conversation  in  public,  do  you?"  said  Welling, 
watching. 

"Is  the  smaller  one  a  woman  ?"  asked  Creith. 

"I  guess  so ;  she  is  sitting  side-saddle." 


312  THE  BLACK 

Lord  Creith  fixed  his  glass  and  peered  at  the  two,  and  then 
the  woman  raised  a  hand  and  waved,  and  it  seemed  that  the 
greeting  was  for  him. 

"Are  they  signalling  to  us  ?" 

"It  looks  like  it,"  said  Welling. 

Lord  Creith's  face  had  gone  suddenly  pale. 

"It  can't  be,"  he  said  in  a  tremulous  voice.  Then,  turning, 
he  ran  down  the  steps  across  the  beach  road  on  to  the  sands, 
and  the  two  riders  turned  their  steeds  in  the  direction  and 
kicked  them  into  a  gallop. 

Welling  watched  the  scene  dumfounded.  He  saw  the  Moor- 
ish woman  suddenly  leap  from  the  saddle  into  the  arms  of  the 
bareheaded  old  man  and  then  the  bigger  Moor  got  down,  to  be 
greeted  warmly. 

"If  that  is  not  Jim  Morlake,  I'm  a  Dutchman,"  said  Welling. 

In  another  instant  he  was  flying  across  the  sands  to  meet 
them.  A  crowd  of  Moors  had  watched  the  unseemly  behaviour 
of  the  unveiled  woman  and  stared  painfully  at  her  outrageous 
conduct. 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Joan  hilariously.  "I  feel  drunk  with  hap- 
piness." 

In  an  hour  four  happy  people  sat  down  to  the  first  square 
meal  two  of  them  had  taken  in  days.  Welling  went  away  after 
lunch  and  came  back  in  an  hour  with  the  news  that  the  basha 
had  sent  a  posse  to  arrest  Hamon  on  information  laid  by  Sadi 
Hafiz. 

"Which  means  that  Sadi,  having  saved  his  life,  is  now  rap- 
idly saving  his  skin,"  said  Jim.  "In  a  sense  I'm  glad  I  didn't 
kill  him."  He  turned  to  Lord  Creith.  "You  are  going  to  get 
Lady  Joan  out  of  this  very  quickly,  aren't  you?" 

"We  sail  this  evening,"  said  his  lordship  fervently,  "and  if 
there  is  a  gale  in  the  channel  and  the  seas  of  the  Bay  of  Biscay 
are  mountains  high,  I'm  heading  straight  for  Southampton.  I 
would  go  home  by  the  nearest  route,"  he  added,  "and  let  the 
yacht  find  its  way  back  without  my  assistance,  but  the  real 
owner  is  a  personal  friend  of  mine.  You're  coming  too,  Mor- 
lake?" 


THE  REVEREND  GENTLEMAN    313 

Jim  shook  his  head. 

"Not  yet,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  came  out  here  with  two  objects. 
One  is  to  a  great  extent  fulfilled ;  the  other  remains." 

"You  mean  Hamon  ?" 

He  nodded. 

"I'm  certainly  not  going  to  leave  you  here,  my  good  man," 
said  Joan  with  spirit.  "I  have  an  especial  right  to  demand  that 
you  will  return  with  us !" 

But  on  this  point  Jim  was  obdurate.  The  day  after  the  yacht 
sailed,  he  received  news  of  the  death  of  Sadi  Hafiz  and  the  mur- 
derer's flight,  and  cursed  himself  for  not  following  his  heart. 
He  flew  over  to  Cadiz  by  military  aeroplane,  in  the  hope  of 
picking  up  the  yacht  at  that  port,  but  even  as  the  aeroplane  was 
crossing  the  coast  line,  he  saw  the  L'Esperance  steaming  out. 
He  caught  the  afternoon  train  to  Madrid,  and  was  on  the  quay 
at  Southampton  to  welcome  them.  And  Joan  did  not  see  the 
man  she  loved  until  another  month  had  passed,  for  Jim  Mor- 
lake  had  been  seized  with  a  sudden  shyness  and  a  doubt  had 
come  to  his  mind  which  had  developed  into  an  obsession. 


CHAPTER   LXV 
The  Reverend  Gentleman 

"HANIMALS  are  hanimals,"  said  the  aggrieved  Binger.  "They 
'ave  their  places,  the  same  as  everything  helse." 

"They  may  have  their  places,  but  if  you  kick  my  dog,"  said 
Jim  Morlake,  "I  shall  kick  you !" 

"If  you  kick  me,  sir,"  said  Binger  witn  dignity,  "I  shall  hof- 
fer  my  resignation." 

Jim  laughed  and  caressed  the  lame  terrier  who  was  showing 
his  teeth  at  the  valet. 

"A  hanimal's  place  is  in  the  country,  sir,  if  you'll  excuse  me." 

"I  won't  excuse  you,  Binger,"  said  Jim  good-humouredly. 
"Get  out." 


314  THE  BLACK 

He  filled  his  pipe  and  sat  back  in  the  deep  chair,  scanning  the 
evening  newspaper  and  the  terrier,  who  had  resented  the  gen- 
tle kick  which  Binger  had  delivered  because  of  a  certain 
missing  mutton-bone,  put  his  head  between  his  paws  and  went 
to  sleep. 

Presently  Jim  put  down  his  newspaper,  went  to  the  book- 
shelf in  his  bedroom  and  brought  back  a  large  atlas.  He  turned 
the  pages  until  he  came  to  the  coast  line  of  Morocco  and  with 
a  pencil  he  traced  the  possible  avenues  of  escape  that  might  lie 
open  to  a  hunted  murderer.  He  was  in  the  midst  of  this  occu- 
pation when  Welling  came. 

"Planning  out  a  honeymoon  trip  ?"  he  asked  pleasantly  and 
Jim  flushed. 

"I  am  not  contemplating  a  honeymoon  trip,"  he  said  a  little 
stiffly. 

"Then  you're  wasting  a  perfectly  good  atlas,"  said  the  calm 
detective,  laying  his  hat  carefully  over  the  head  of  the  sleeping 
dog.  "Your  man  is  alive." 

"Hamon  ?"  asked  Jim  quickly. 

The  detective  nodded. 

"Two  bank  drafts  have  been  cashed,  both  in  Tangier,  for  a 
considerable  sum.  They  were  made  payable  to  Hamon  in  a  fic- 
titious name — I  only  discovered  the  fact  yesterday  when  I  went 
to  one  of  his  banks.  Hamon  had  several  accounts  running,  and 
it  was  rather  difficult  to  discover  them  all ;  but  when  I  did  get  on 
to  the  right  track  I  made  that  discovery.  The  drafts  have  been 
honoured — in  fact,  they're  back  in  England." 

Jim  looked  serious. 

"Then  he  got  to  Tangier  ?" 

"Undoubtedly,  but  that  would  be  easy.  I  am  willing  to  ac- 
cept your  theory  that  ne  got  through  to  the  Spanish  territory. 
From  Tetuan  to  Tangier  is  only  a  step.  I  think  one  of  the  Gib- 
raltar steamers  calls  at  both  ports." 

"He'll  stay  there  if  he  is  wise." 

"But  he  isn't  wise,"  said  Welling.  "It  is  dangerous  enough 
for  him  in  Tangier.  He'll  be  tried  for  the  murder  of  Sadi  Hafiz 
if  he  is  detected.  The  mere  fact  that  he  has  drawn  this 


THE  REVEREND  GENTLEMAN    315 

seems  to  me  to  be  pretty  convincing  proof  that  he's  shaking 
Tangier  at  the  earliest  opportunity — probably  he  is  away  by 
now.  It  is  rather  curious  to  see  you  riddling  with  that  atlas.  I 
was  doing  exactly  the  same  thing  this  morning,  guessing  the 
lines  he  took " 

"Which  would  be ?" 

"Gibraltar-Genoa,  or  Gibraltar-Naples.  Genoa  or  Naples  to 
New  York  or  New  Orleans.  New  York  or  New  Orleans  to 
London,  or  maybe  Cadiz  and  a  banana  boat  to  Thames  River — 
that's  more  likely." 

"You  think  he'll  come  here !"  asked  Jim  in  surprise. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  other.  "And  what  is  more,  we  shall 
never  take  him." 

Jim  put  down  his  atlas  and  leant  back  in  his  chair. 

"You  mean  you'll  never  capture  him  ?"  he  asked  in  surprise. 

The  detective  shook  his  head. 

"We  may  capture  him,  though  at  present  we've  no  evidence 
worth  the  gum  on  a  penny  stamp,"  he  said,  "but  he'll  never 
hang.  Because  he  is  mad,  Morlake !  I've  seen  the  report  of  the 
doctor  who  examined  Sadi  Hafiz  after  he  was  found,  and  I  can 
tell  you,  as  a  student  of  medical  jurisprudence,  that  Ralph 
Hamon  is  the  third  lunatic  I've  met  in  this  case." 

Jim  lit  his  pipe  again. 

"Am  I  one  ?"  he  asked  ironically. 

"No,  there  have  been  three,  but  you  haven't  been  one.  The 
first  was  Farringdon,  who  was  undoubtedly  mad ;  the  second 
was  Bannockwaite,  who  is  also  mad  but  not  dangerous;  the 
third  is  Hamon,  who  is  the  worst  of  the  lot." 

Jim  Morlake  pondered  as  he  recalled  the  characteristics  of 
the  men. 

"Bannockwaite  is  the  maddest  of  the  lot,"  he  said  at  last. 

"He  has  left  Tangier,"  nodded  Welling.  "The  British  Min- 
ister gave  him  twenty-four  hours  to  quit,  for  some  reason, 
which  I  haven't  discovered,  but  which  was  probably  due  to  your 
representation.  He  went  over  to  Algeciras,  but  the  Spanish 
people  sent  him  packing.  He  was  in  Paris  until  yesterday.  He 
is  in  London  to-night." 

"How  do  you  know  ?"  asked  Jim  in  surprise. 


3i6  THE  BLACK 

"I  had  him  tailed  from  the  station.  He  is  living  in  a  little 
lodging  in  Stamford  Street,  Blackf riars." 

Jim  was  not  sufficiently  curious  to  enquire  much  about  the 
decadent  minister,  but  now  he  learnt  for  the  first  time  that 
Bannockwaite  was  practically  penniless  at  the  time  when  he 
was  supposed  to  have.died.  He  had  run  through  a  large  fortune, 
scattering  his  money  lavishly.  His  only  income  was  from  a 
group  of  houses  the  rents  of  which  had  been  left  to  him  by  a 
maternal  aunt  in  the  days  when  he  was  so  wealthy  that  he  had 
regarded  the  legacy  with  something  like  contempt.  These  had 
been  overlooked  by  him  in  the  final  squandering  of  his  patri- 
mony, and  when  he  would  have  sold  them  the  estate  was  for- 
tunately in  bankruptcy.  Enough  had  been  realised  to  clear  his 
debts,  but  the  administration  of  this  little  property  remained  in 
the  trustee's  hands. 

"A  remarkable  fellow,"  said  Welling,  shaking  his  head.  "He 
built  three  churches,  endowed  an  orphanage,  and  brought 
more  souls  to  the  verge  of  hell  than  any  living  man." 

Welling  was  on  his  way  home.  He  had  lately  got  into  the 
habit  of  calling  at  the  flat  in  Bond  Street. 

"Why  don't  you  go  back  to  Wold  House  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  prefer  this  place  for  the  time  being.  It  is  rather  cold  in 
the  country,"  Jim  excused  himself  lamely. 

"What  are  you  afraid  of  ?"  asked  the  detective  contemptu- 
ously. "A  bit  of  a  girl !" 

"I'm  afraid  of  nothing,"  said  Jim,  going  red. 

"You're  afraid  of  Joan  Carston,  my  lad,"  and  he  spoke  the 
truth. 

Jim  saw  him  out  and  went  back  to  his  pipe  and  his  atlas, 
but  now  he  had  no  interest  in  tracing  possible  routes,  and  clos- 
ing the  book  returned  it  to  the  shelf. 

Yes,  he  was  afraid  of  Joan  Carston — afraid  of  what  she 
might  feel  and  think ;  afraid  that,  in  her  less  emotional  mo- 
ments, she  would  feel  he  had  taken  advantage  of  his  disguise 
and  sneaked  into  matrimony — that  was  his  own  expression.  He 
was  afraid  that  the  marriage  was  not  legal — equally  afraid  that 
it  was.  He  might  have  accepted  one  of  Joan's  invitations,  that 
grew  colder  and  colder  with  repetition,  and  gone  down  to 


THE  REVEREND  GENTLEMAN    317 

Creith  House  and  talked  it  over  with  her,  but  he  had  shirked 
the  meeting.  He  heard  the  front  door  bell  ring  and  Binger  came 
in. 

"There's  a  man  wants  to  see  you,  sir." 

"What  sort  of  a  man?" 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  hown  impression  is  that  he's 
hintoxicated." 

"What  sort  of  a  man  ?"  asked  Jim  again. 

"He's  what  I  call  the  himage  of  a  chronic  boozer." 

Jim  looked  at  him  and  past  him. 

"Did  he  give  his  name  ?" 

"Bannockburn  is  his  name,"  said  Binger  impressively.  "In 
my  opinion  it  is  a  put-up  job.  Shall  I  say  you're  hout?" 

"No,"  said  Jim,  "he  might  misunderstand  you.  Ask  your 
Mr.  Bannockburn  to  come  in — by  the  way,  his  name  is  Ban- 
nockwaite." 

"It  sounds  like  a  piece  of  hartfulness  to  me,"  said  Binger  and 
showed  the  man  into  the  room. 

There  was  very  little  improvement  in  the  appearance  of  the 
marrying  clergyman.  He  carried  himself  a  little  more  jauntily, 
his  manner  was  perhaps  less  aggressive.  He  wore  a  collar  and 
a  tie,  the  former  of  which  had  probably  been  in  use  since  his 
return  to  London. 

"Good  evening,  Morlake,"  he  said  with  a  sprightly  wave  of 
his  hand.  "I  think  we  have  met  before." 

"Won't  you  sit  down,"  said  Jim  gravely.  "Put  a  chair  for 
Mr.  Bannock waite." 

Binger  obeyed  with  a  grimace  of  distaste. 

"And  close  the  door  tight,"  said  Jim  significantly,  and  Bin- 
ger bridled  as  he  went  out. 

"I  got  your  address  from  a  mutual  friend." 

"In  other  words,  a  telephone  directory,"  said  Jim.  "I  do  not 
know  that  we  have  any  mutual  friends  except  Abdullah  the 
tailor  of  Tangier.  An  excellent  fellow !" 

The  wreck  of  a  man  fixed  his  glass  in  his  eye  and  beamed 
benevolently  on  Jim. 

"A  limited  but  an  excellent  fellow.  The  industry  of  the  Moor 
is  a  constant  source  of  wonder  to  me."  He  stroked  his  uneven 


3i8  THE  BLACK 

red  beard  and  looked  approvingly  round  the  apartment.  "It  is 
delightful,  perfectly  delightful,"  he  murmured.  "A  touch  of 
old  Morocco !  I  specially  admire  the  ceiling." 

Jim  was  wondering  what  was  the  object  of  the  visit,  but  was 
not  long  left  in  doubt. 

"I  performed  a  little  service  for  you,  Mr.  Morlake,"  said 
Bannockwaite  with  an  airy  wave  of  his  swollen  hand.  "A  mere 
trifle,  but  in  these  hard  times,  necessitas  non  habet  legem.  At 
the  moment  I  was  not  aware  that  we  had  such  a  distinguished 
• — er — client,  but  it  has  since  transpired,  though  I  have  not  ad- 
vertised the  fact,  that  the  unprepossessing  bridegroom  was 
none  other  than  the  very  interesting  and — if  I  may  be  excused 
the  impertinence — the  very  good-looking  gentleman  who  is 
sitting  before  me. 

"To  turn  my  sacred  calling  into  commerce  is  repugnant  to 
all  my  finer  feelings,  but  a  man  of  your  financial  standing  will 
not  object  to  a  mere  trifle  of  five  guineas.  I  could  make  an  even 
larger  sum  if  I  wrote  a  little  account,  one  of  those  frothy, 
epigrammatical  souffles  of  literature  with  which  my  name  was 
associated  at  Oxford,  and  through  the  good  offices  of  my 
friend  of  the  editor  of  the  Megaphone " 

"In  other  words,  if  I  don't  pay  your  fee  of  five  guineas, 
you're  going  to  broadcast  the  fact  that  I  married  Lady  Joan 
Carston?" 

"That  would  be  blackmail,"  murmured  the  other  and  smiled 
jovially.  "No,  no,  I  will  tell  you  candidly,  intra  muros,  that  I  am 
too  lazy  to  write.  My  dear  fellow,  I  will  be  perfectly  candid 
with  you — I  have  no  intention  of  writing,"  and  again  he 
beamed. 

Jim  took  a  note  from  his  pocket  and  passed  it  across  the 
table. 

"Mr.  Bannockwaite,  I  often  wonder  whether  you  think?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon  ?"  The  man  leant  forward  with  an  ex- 
aggerated gesture  of  politeness,  his  hand  to  his  ear. 

"Whether  I  think?"  he  repeated.  "My  dear  fellow,  why 
should  I  think?  I  ask  you,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  why  I  should 
think?  I  live  for  the  moment.  If  the  moment  is  good,  I  am 
happy ;  if  it  is  bad,  I  sorrow.  I  have  lived  that  way  all  my  life." 


THE  REVEREND  GENTLEMAN    319 

"You  have  no  regrets  ?"  asked  Jim  wonderingly. 

The  man  pocketed  the  note,  smacked  his  lips  and  smiled. 

"I  shall  see  you  again,"  he  said,  rising. 

"If  you  call  again,  I  will  have  you  thrown  out,"  said  Jim 
Without  heat.  "I  hate  to  say  it  to  a  man  of  your  surpassing  intel- 
lect, but  you  are  altogether  horrible." 

The  visitor  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed,  with  such  hear- 
tiness that  Binger  opened  the  door  and  stared  in. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "you  lack  something  in  philoso 
phy.  I  wish  you  a  very  good  evening." 

When  the  door  closed  upon  him,  Jim  rang  the  bell  for 
Binger. 

"Open  the  windows  and  air  the  room,"  he  said. 

"I  should  jolly  well  say  so,"  said  the  indignant  Binger. 

"Then  jolly  well  don't,"  snapped  Jim. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  eight  o'clock  and  he  was  con- 
scious that  he  had  not  dined.  Binger  was  a  bad  cook  and  Mah- 
met  had  not  returned  from  Casa  Bianca.  To  avoid  starvation 
or  indigestion,  Jim  patronised  a  little  restaurant  in  Soho,  but 
to-night  he  craved  for  dishes  that  were  home-made,  and  the 
very  thought  of  the  rich  fare  that  awaited  him  in  Soho  made 
him  feel  ill.  Home  dishes,  served  in  a  big  old-fashioned  dining- 
room,  with  a  fire  crackling  on  the  hearth,  the  rustle  of  bare 
boughs  in  the  garden  outside,  a  frozen  lawn,  and  a  river  where 
little  fishes  leapt.  He  rang  the  bell. 

"Telephone  through  to  Cleaver  and  say  I'm  coming  down 
to-night.  Let  him  get  me  a  large  joint  of  juicy  beef,  with  a 
mountainous  pie  to  follow.  And  beer." 

"To-night,  sir?"  said  Binger  incredulously.  "It's  height 
o'clock." 

"I  don't  care  if  it  is  heighty,"  said  Jim.  "Get  me  my  coat." 

Soon  he  was  speeding  through  the  night,  the  cold  wind  rasp- 
ing his  cheeks.  This  was  better  than  Tangier ;  better  than  warm 
breezes  and  sunny  skies  were  these  scurrying  clouds  that 
showed  glimpses  of  the  moon.  There  was  a  smell  of  snow  in  the 
air ;  a  speck  fell  against  his  wind-screen  and  on  the  south  side 
of  Horsham  it  was  snowing  fast.  The  hedges  were  patched  with 
white  and  the  road  revealed  by  his  headlamps  began  to  disap- 


320  THE  BLACK 

pear  under  a  fleecy  carpet.  His  heart  leapt  at  the  sight  of  it.  It 
could  not  be  too  cold,  too  snowy,  too  rainy,  too  anything — the 
country  was  the  only  place.  There  was  something  wrong  about 
people  who  wanted  to  live  in  town  all  the  year  round, 
and  especially  in  winter.  Amongst  the  attractions  of  the  coun- 
try he  did  not  think  of  Joan;  yet,  if  he  had  thought  of  the 
country  without  her,  it  would  have  been  drear  indeed. 

Cleaver  greeted  him  with  just  that  amount  of  pompousness 
that  Jim  enjoyed  and  took  his  wet  coat  from  him. 

"Dinner  is  ready,  sir.  Shall  I  serve  ?" 

"If  you  please,  Cleaver,"  said  Jim.  "Everything  quiet  here  ?" 

"Everything,  sir.  A  hayrick  caught  fire  at  Sunning 
Farm " 

"Oh,  blow  the  hayrick !"  said  Jim.  "Is  that  all  the  excitement 
you've  had  here  since  I've  been  away?" 

"I  think  so,  sir,"  said  Cleaver  gravely.  "The  tortoise-shell 
cat  has  given  birth  to  four  kittens  and  the  price  of  coal  has 
risen  owing  to  the  strike,  but,  beyond  that,  very  little  has  hap- 
pened. The  country  is  very  dull." 

"Are  you  another  of  those  dull-country  people,  my  man?" 
said  Jim  gaily,  as  he  rubbed  his  hands  before  the  log  fire.  "Well, 
get  that  out  of  your  head !  It  came  on  me  to-night,  Cleaver, 
that  the  country  is  the  only  place  where  a  man  can  live.  I'll  have 
a  fire  in  my  bedroom,  and  turn  on  every  light  in  the  study,  let 
up  the  shades  and  open  the  shutters." 

Joan,  going  to  bed,  looked  out  of  the  window  as  was  her 
practice,  and  saw  the  illumination. 

"Oh,  you  have  come  back,  have  you !"  she  said  softly,  and 
kissed  her  finger-tips  to  the  lights. 


CHAPTER   LXVI 

A  Luncheon  Party 

"WHAT  is  worrying  me,"  said  Lord  Creith  at  breakfast,  "is  the 
future  of  this  wretched  estate." 


A  LUNCHEON  PARTY  321 

"Why,  Daddy  ?"  she  asked. 

"What  is  going  to  happen,  supposing  this  horrible  scoundrel 
is  arrested  and  tried  and  hanged,  as  very  probably  he  will  be  ? 
Who  inherits  Creith  House  ?" 

That  had  not  occurred  to  her. 

"His  sister,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  thought. 

"Exactly,"  said  Lord  Creith,  "and  we're  as  badly  off  as  ever 
we  were !  I'm  jiggered  in  this  matter,  my  dear,  absolutely  jig- 
gered !" 

"Have  you  actually  sold  the  property  ?" 

"N-no,"  said  his  lordship.  "What  I  gave  Hamon  was  a  sort 
of  extravagant  mortgage." 

"What  kind  of  mortgage  is  that  ?"  she  asked,  smiling. 

"Well,  he  gave  me  a  sum  which  it  is  humanly  impossible  that 
I  could  ever  pay  back,  so  that  foreclosure  sooner  or  later  is 
inevitable,  in  exchange  for  which  I  received  the  tenancy  for 
life." 

He  mentioned  a  sum  which  took  her  breath  away. 

"Did  he  pay  you  all  that  money?"  she  said  in  awe.  "Why, 
Daddy,  what  did  you  do  with  it  ?" 

Lord  Creith  tactfully  changed  the  subject. 

"I  gather  Jim  Morlake  is  back,"  he  said.  "Why  the  dickens 
he  hasn't  come  down  before,  I  do  not  know.  Really  young  mer. 
have  changed  since  my  day.  Not  that  Morlake  is  a  chick,  I  sup- 
pose he's  fifty." 

"Fifty !"  she  said  scornfully.  "He  may  be  thirty  but  he's  not 
much  more." 

"There  is  very  little  difference  between  thirty  and  fifty,  as 
you  will  discover  when  you  are  my  age,"  said  his  lordship. 
"I  sent  him  a  note  asking  him  to  come  over  to  breakfast,  but  I 
don't  suppose  he  is  up." 

"He  is  up  every  morning  at  six,  Daddy,"  she  corrected  him 
severely,  "hours  before  you  dream  of  coming  down." 

"I  dream  of  it,"  he  murmured,  "but  I  don't  do  it.  How  do 
you  know  ?" 

"He  told  me  a  whole  lot  about  himself  in  Morocco,"  she 
said,  and  the  subject  of  their  discussion  was  ushered  in  at  that 
moment. 


322  THE  BLACK 

All  his  fears  had  come  back  to  him,  and  her  attitude  did  not 
make  matters  any  better.  She  seemed  scarcely  interested  in  his 
recital  of  what  he  had  been  doing  since  he  came  to  London,  a 
recital  called  for  by  Lord  Creith's  persistent  question : 

"But  why  on  earth  haven't  you  been  down?"  demanded  his 
lordship.  "Joan " 

"Will  you  please  leave  me  out  of  it  ?"  said  Joan  immediately. 
"Mr.  Morlake  isn't  at  all  interested  in  my  views." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Jim  hastily,  "I  am  very  much  inter- 
ested, and  as  I  say  I  had  a  tremendous  lot  of  work  to  do." 

"And  I  hope  you  did  it,"  said  Joan  briskly,  "and  now  I'm 
going  to  the  dairy.  And  don't  come  with  me,"  she  said  as  he 
half  rose,  "because  I  shall  be  very  busy  for  the  next  two 
hours." 

"You're  staying  to  lunch,  Morlake?" 

"How  absurd,  Daddy,"  she  said.  "One  would  think  Mr. 
Morlake  had  come  down  from  London  for  the  day!  We're 
upsetting  all  his  household  arrangements  and  the  admirable 
Mr.  Cleaver  will  never  forgive  you." 

Lord  Creith  stared  glumly  at  the  visitor  after  the  girl  had 
gone. 

"That'cuts  out  lunch  so  far  as  you're  concerned,  my  boy," 
he  said.  "You're  going  to  stay  over  for  the  hunting,  of  course  ?" 

"I  don't  think  so."  Jim  was  annoyed,  though  he  made  an 
effort  not  to  show  it.  "The  country  doesn't  appeal  to  me  very 
much.  I  came  down  to  get  my  house  in  order.  I've  only  paid  one 
visit  to  Wold  House  since  I  returned  from  Morocco.  I'm  go- 
ing to  America  next  week,"  he  added. 

"It  is  a  nice  country,"  said  his  lordship,  oblivious  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  called  upon  to  show  some  regret  or  surprise. 

Jim  went  home  feeling  particularly  foolish  and  was  irritated 
at  himself  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  such  childishness. 

The  visitor  was  gone  when  Joan  came  back  to  lunch. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Morlake?"  she  asked. 

"He's  gone  home,  where  you  sent  him,"  said  Lord  Creithj 
unfolding  a  serviette  with  care. 

"But  I  thought  he  was  staying  to  lunch?" 


A  LUNCHEON  PARTY  323 

Lord  Creith  raised  his  pained  eyes  at  this  shocking  piece  of 
inconsistency. 

"You  knew  jolly  well  he  was  not  staying  to  lunch,  Joan !"  he 
said  severely.  "How  could  the  poor  man  stay  to  lunch  when  you 
sent  him  home?  I'm  going  to  London  to-morrow  to  see  him 
off." 

"Where  ?"  she  gasped. 

"He's  going  to  America,"  said  his  lordship,  "South  Amer- 
ica, probably.  And,"  he  added,  "he  will  be  away  ten  years." 

"Did  he  tell  you  that  ?"  she  demanded,  staring  at  him. 

"He  didn't  mention  the  period,"  he  answered  carefully,  "but 
I  gathered  from  his  general  outlook  on  things  that  he  finds 
Creith  dull  and  that  a  few  healthy  quibbles  with  a  boa- 
constrictor  on  the  banks  of  the  perfectly  horrible  Amazon 
would  bring  amusement  into  his  life.  Anyway,  he's  going.  Not 
that  I  intended  seeing  him  off.  I  can't  be  bothered." 

"But  seriously,  Daddy,  is  he  leaving  Creith  ?" 

His  lordship  raised  his  eyes  wearily  and  sighed. 

"I've  told  you  twice  that  he's  going  to  America.  That  is  the 
truth."  He  pulled  out  a  chair  and  sat  down. 

"I  don't  want  anything,  thank  you,  Peters." 

"Aren't  you  eating?  You've  been  drinking  milk,"  accused 
his  lordship.  "There's  nothing  like  milk  for  putting  you  off 
your  food.  And  it  will  make  you  fat,"  he  added. 

"I  haven't  been  drinking  milk.  I'm  just  simply  not  hungry." 

"Then  you'd  better  see  the  doctor." 

She  dropped  her  head  on  her  hands,  her  white  teeth  biting 
at  her  underlip.  Lunch  promised  to  be  a  silent  meal  until  she 
Said: 

"I  don't  believe  he  is  going !" 

"Who?" 

"Who  were  we  talking  about  ?" 

"We  haven't  talked  about  anybody  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour," 
said  his  lordship  in  despair.  "You're  the  most  unsociable 
woman  I've  ever  dined  with.  Usually  people  do  their  best  to 
amuse  me.  And  believe  me  I  pay  for  amusing !  He's  going !" 

She  raised  her  eyebrows  to  signify  her  indifference. 


324  THE  BLACK 

"I  don't  believe  he  is  going,"  she  said.  "I'm  hungry  and 
there  isn't  anything  to  eat.  I  hate  lamb !" 

Her  parent  sighed  patiently. 

"Go  and  lunch  with  him,  my  dear,  for  heaven's  sake !  Take  a 
message  from  me  that  you're  growing  more  and  more  unbear- 
able every  day.  I  wonder,  by  the  way,  if  you'll  ever  develop 
into  an  old  maid  ?  We  had  an  aunt  in  our  family — you  remem- 
ber Aunt  Jemima — she  was  taken  that  way.  She  bred  rabbits,  if 
I  remember  aright.  .  .  ." 

But  Joan  did  not  want  to  discuss  her  Aunt  Jemima  and 
flounced  up  to  her  room. 

His  lordship  was  in  his  study  when  he  saw  her  walking 
across  the  meadows  in  the  direction  of  Wold  House  and  shook 
his  head.  Joan  could  be  very  trying.  .  .  . 

"Thank  you,  Cleaver,"  said  Jim.  "I  don't  think  I  want  any 
lunch." 

"It  is  a  woodcock,  sir,"  said  Cleaver  anxiously.  "You  told 
me  last  night  you  could  enjoy  a  woodcock." 

Jim  shuddered. 

"Take  it  away,  it  seems  almost  human !  Why  do  they  serve 
woodcocks  with  their  heads  on?  It  isn't  decent." 

"Shall  I  get  you  a  chop,  sir  ?" 

"No,  thanks,  a  glass  of  water,  and  bring  me  some  cheese- 
no,  I  don't  think  I'll  have  any  cheese — oh,  I  don't  want  any- 
thing," he  said,  and  got  up  and  poked  the  fire  savagely. 

"Jane  Smith,"  said  a  voice  from  the  doorway.  "I've  an- 
nounced myself." 

She  took  off  her  coat  and  handed  it  to  Cleaver  and  threw  hef 
hat  on  to  a  chair. 

"Have  you  had  any  lunch  ?" 

"I  haven't;  I'm  not  hungry." 

"What  have  you  got  for  lunch  ?"  she  asked. 

"We  have  a  woodcock,"  said  Jim  dismally.  "It  isn't  enough 
for  two." 

"Then  you  can  have  something  else,"  said  Joan,  and  rang 
the  bell.  "Jim,  are  you  going  to  America?" 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  going  somewhere  out  of  this  infernal 
place,"  he  said  gloomily.  "The  country  gives  me  the  creeps ; 


A  LUNCHEON  PARTY  325 

snowing  all  the  morning  and  the  sound  of  the  wind  howling 
round  the  house  makes  my  hair  stand  up." 

"You're  not  going  anywhere,  you  are  staying  in  Creith ;  I've 
decided  that,"  said  Joan. 

She  was  eating  bread  and  butter  hungrily. 

"Don't  they  feed  you  at  home  ?"  asked  Jim  looking  at  her  in 
wonder. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  us  ?"  was  her  reply. 

"What  do  you  mean — us  ?"  he  asked,  inwardly  quaking. 

"About  our  marriage.  I've  taken  legal  advice  and  there  is  not 
the  slightest  doubt  that  we're  married.  At  the  same  time  there's 
not  the  least  doubt  that  we're  not.  You  see  I've  been  to  two  sets 
of  lawyers." 

"Have  you  really?" 

She  nodded. 

"I  haven't  been  to  lawyers  exactly,  but  I've  written  to  two 
newspapers  that  give  free  advice  and  one  says  one  thing  and 
one  says  the  other.  Now  what  are  we  to  do  ?" 

"What  do  you  want  to  do  ?"  he  countered. 

"I  want  to  get  a  divorce,"  she  said  calmly,  "except  for  the 
publicity.  I  shall  base  my  petition  on  incompatibility  of  tem- 
perament." 

"That  isn't  a  good  cause  in  this  country." 

"We  shall  see." 

Jim  drew  a  long  face. 

"There's  another  way  out  of  the  trouble,  Mrs.  Morlake," 
he  said. 

"Don't  call  me  Mrs.  Morlake.  At  the  worst,  I  am  Lady  Joan 
Morlake.  Jim,  are  you  really  going  to  America  ?" 

"I've  had  very  serious  thoughts  about  it,"  he  said.  "But  hon- 
estly, what  are  we  to  do,  Joan  ?  My  lawyer  says  that  it  is  no 
marriage  because  the  necessary  licence  is  not  issued,  and  the 
mere  fact  that  a  clergyman  performed  the  ceremony  does  not 
legalise  it." 

Consternation  was  in  her  face  when  he  looked  at  her. 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  she  said. 

"Are  you  sorry  ?" 

"No,  I'm  not  exactly  sorry.  I'm  annoyed.  That  means  thzrt 


326  THE  BLACK 

we've  got  to  get  married  all  over  again.  And,  Jim,  that  will  take 
an  awful  time.  .  .  ." 

Cleaver,  coming  in  at  that  moment,  turned  round  and  went 
out  again  very  quickly,  and  it  seemed  almost  as  if  the  woodcock 
winked. 


CHAPTER   LXVII 
The  Return 

IT  HAD  snowed  all  night.  The  roads  were  ankle-deep  but  the 
man  who  tramped  doggedly  through  the  mean  streets  of  East 
London  hardly  noticed  the  weather.  It  was  too  early  to  get  a 
cab.  The  little  ship  had  come  in  with  the  tide  and  was  moored 
near  Tower  Bridge  and  he  had  had  some  difficulty  in  persuad- 
ing the  man  at  the  docks  to  let  him  pass,  but  as  he  carried  no 
luggage,  that  difficulty  had  been  overcome,  and  now  he  was 
heading  for  the  city. 

He  passed  Billingsgate,  crowded  even  at  that  early  hour, 
and  turning  up  Monument  Hill,  came  to  the  Mansion  House. 
Here  he  found  a  wandering  taxi  which  set  him  down  at  the 
end  of  Grosvenor  Place.  There  was  nobody  in  sight.  The  snow 
was  falling  again  and  a  fierce  wind  had  driven  the  policeman 
to  cover.  The  blinds  of  the  house  were  drawn,  he  noticed,  and 
wondered  whether  it  was  empty.  Taking  a  key  from  his  pocket, 
he  opened  the  door. 

Nothing  had  been  moved.  He  had  sold  the  house  and  the 
new  tenant  had  told  him  he  would  not  wish  to  take  possession 
for  a  year.  He  muttered  his  satisfaction.  Looking  into  the 
drawing-room,  he  saw  it  was  untouched.  On  one  of  the  tables 
was  an  embroidery  frame,  the  needle  showed  in  the  fabric  and 
he  nodded.  Lydia  was  here  then,  she  had  not  returned  to  Paris, 
and  she  was  wise.  On  the  way  upstairs  he  met  a  servant  coming 
down  and  the  woman  stared  at  him  as  though  he  were  a  ghost. 
Fortunately  he  knew  her. 


THE  RETURN  327 

"You  needn't  tell  anybody  I'm  back,"  he  said  gruffly  and 
went  on  to  his  room. 

It  looked  very  desolate  with  its  sheeted  furniture.  The 
floors  were  bare  and  the  bed  innocent  of  clothing.  He  took  off 
his  overcoat  and  looked  at  himself  in  the  glass  with  a  queer 
smile,  and  he  heard  a  rustle  of  feet  on  the  landing  outside.  The 
door  opened  suddenly  and  Lydia  came  in  in  her  dresisng- 
gown. 

"Ralph !"  she  gasped.  "Millie  told  me  that  she  had  seen  you." 

"Well,  she  told  the  truth,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  strangely. 
"So  you're  here,  are  you  ?" 

"Yes,  Ralph,  I  came  straight  back." 

"After  telling  the  police  as  much  as  you  could  about  me?" 

"I  told  them  nothing,"  she  said. 

He  grunted  his  disbelief. 

"Ralph,  there's  a  story  about  Sadi  Hafiz.  He  was  murdered 
in  Morocco  and  you  were — you  were  in  the  house." 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

"Is  that  true?" 

"I  didn't  know  he  was  dead,"  he  said,  not  meeting  her  eyes. 
"Besides,  what  happened  in  Morocco  is  nothing  to  do  with  us 
here.  They  can't  extradite  me  for  a  murder  committed  in  a 
foreign  country.  And  if  they  do  who's  to  prove  I  did  it?  Sadi 
Hafiz  got  what  was  coming  to  him,"  he  said  cunningly.  "I 
killed  him  because  he  insulted  you." 

She  knew  he  was  not  speaking  the  truth  but  did  not  argue 
with  him. 

"The  police  have  been  here,"  she  began. 

"Of  course  they've  been  here.  Haven't  you  been  running 
round  with  old  Welling  ?  I  heard  about  it  in  Tangier.  As  to  the 
police,  I'm  going  to  Welling  this  morning." 

"Ralph,  you're  not !"  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  but  he 
shook  it  off. 

"I'm  going  to  Welling  this  morning,  I  tell  you.  I've  been 
thinking  things  over  on  the  ship  and  I'm  sick  of  living  like  a 
hunted  dog.  If  they've  got  anything  on  me,  let  them  produce  it. 
If  it  is  a  question  of  trial,  why  I'll  stand  my  trial!  Get  me 
something  to  eat." 


328  THE  BLACK 

She  hurried  away,  coming  back  to  tell  him  that  she  had  laid 
a  tray  in  his  study. 

"I  suppose  the  police  have  looked  there  too,  haven't  they?" 

"They  didn't  look  anywhere,  Ralph,"  she  said,  "they  merely 
called.  They  had  no  warrant " 

"Hadn't  they?"  He  turned  on  her  quickly,  a  gleam  in  his 
eyes.  "That  means  that  they're  not  sure  of  themselves,"  he 
added.  "I'll  see  old  Welling  to-day  and  he  will  be  a  very  sur- 
prised man.  Then  I'm  going  down  to  Creith,  my  property,"  he 
said  emphatically. 

"Ralph,  you're  mad  to  go  to  the  police,"  she  said  tremu- 
lously, "couldn't  you  go  abroad  somewhere?" 

"I've  had  too  much  of  abroad  already.  I  tell  you  I'm  going 
to  surprise  old  man  Welling." 

Inspector  Welling  was  not  easily  shocked,  but  when  a  police- 
man came  into  his  office  that  morning  and  laid  a  card  on  his 
table  he  almost  jumped  from  his  chair. 

"Is  he  here  ?"  he  asked  incredulously. 

"Yes,  sir,  in  the  waiting-room." 

"He  himself  ?"  He  could  not  believe  his  ears. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Bring  him  along,"  and  even  then  he  did  not  expect  to  see 
Ralph  Hamon. 

Yet  it  was  the  Ralph  of  old,  with  his  immaculate  silk  hat 
and  his  well-fitting  morning  coat,  who  walked  into  the  office 
and  laid  his  cane  upon  the  officer's  table  and  smiled  down  into 
his  astonished  face. 

"Good-morning,  Welling,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "I  under- 
stand that  you  have  been  looking  for  me  ?" 

"I  certainly  have,"  said  Welling,  recovering  from  the  shock 
of  surprise. 

"Well,  here  I  am,"  said  Hamon,  and  found  a  chair  for  him- 
self. 

He  looked  ten  years  older  than  he  had  when  Welling  saw 
him  last,  and  the  frothy  little  locks  that  covered  the  top  of  his 
head  had  completely  disappeared,  leaving  him  bald. 

"I  want  you  to  account  for  what  you  did — or,  at  any  rate, 
for  you/  movements — in  Morocco,"  said  Welling,  beginning 


THE  RETURN  329 

cautiously.  Anything  further  that  he  might  have  said  was  in- 
terrupted by  his  visitor's  laughter. 

"You  can't  ask  me  anything,  Welling,  or  make  any  en- 
quiries, unless  you  are  requested  to  do  so  by  the  police  authori- 
ties of  that  district  in  which  Sadi  Hafiz  died.  You  see,  I  am 
making  no  disguise  of  the  fact  that  I  know  it  is  Sadi  Hafiz's 
murder  you  are  thinking  about.  My  sister  tells  me  you  also 
require  certain  information  concerning  Farringdon  and  his 
untimely  end.  I  can  only  tell  you  that,  at  the  time  of  his  mur- 
der, I  was  in  London,  and  if  you  can  prove  to  the  contrary  you 
are  welcome  to  take  any  steps  which  you  may  think  necessary." 

The  detective  looked  at  him  from  under  his  bushy  eye- 
brows. 

"And  what  of  the  murder  in  the  little  cottage  overlooking  the 
Devil's  Punch  Bowl  ?"  he  asked. 

Not  a  muscle  of  Ralph  Hamon's  face  moved. 

"That  is  a  new  one  to  me,"  he  said,  "though  the  locality 
sounds  familiar.  I  had  a  bungalow  there — or  in  that  region." 

"It  is  about  the  bungalow  I  am  speaking,"  said  Welling.  "A 
man  was  killed  there,  stripped  and  put  into  a  sailor's  suit,  and 
left  for  dead  on  the  Portsmouth  Road.  He  was  picked  up,  as 
you  probably  know,  by  Mr.  James  Lexington  Morlake,  and 
conveyed  to  the  Cottage  Hospital,  where  he  died.  I  have  ex- 
amined the  premises,  and  I  find  bloodstains  on  the  wall  of  thft 
kitchen." 

Ralph  Hamon  smiled  slowly. 

"Have  you  also  found  that  I  put  them  there  ?"  he  asked  drily. 
"Really,  Captain  Welling,  I  am  not  prepared  to  discuss  these 
crimes  in  detail.  What  I  do  ask  you  plainly  is  this."  He  got 
up  and  walked  across  to  the  table,  and  stood  leaning  upon  its 
edge,  looking  down  into  Welling's  upturned  face. 

"Have  you  any  charge  to  make  against  me  ?  Because,  if  you 
have,  I  am  here  to  answer  that  charge." 

Welling  did  not  reply.  The  enemy  had  carried  the  war  into 
his  country,  and  had  established  a  very  favourable  point  for 
himself.  He  was  practically  demanding  an  enquiry  into  rumour 
and  a  precipitation  of  suspicion.  There  was  no  warrant  for  the 
man,  no  definite  charge  against  him.  Even  Scotland  Yard 


330  THE  BLACK 

would  hesitate  to  arrest  Ralph  Hamon  on  the  information  it 
possessed ;  and  he  knew  that  the  man  was  on  safe  ground  when 
he  said  that  no  charge  could  follow  the  murder  of  Sadi  Hafiz 
unless  representations  had  been  made  by  the  Moorish  Govern- 
ment— and  none  had  been  made. 

"Most  of  the  charges  are  those  which  you  are  bringing  your- 
self," he  drawled.  "I  do  not  even  ask  you  to  produce  your 
pocket-case  and  show  me  its  contents." 

He  watched  the  man  narrowly  as  he  spoke.  If  Hamon  had 
shown  the  slightest  uneasiness,  if  he  had  turned  the  conversa- 
tion elsewhere,  if  he  had  protested  against  the  suggestion,  he 
would  have  arrested  the  man  on  the  spot  and  have  searched 
him,  on  any  charge  that  came  into  his  head.  But  the  answer  of 
Ralph  Hamon  was  characteristic.  He  dived  his  hand  into  his 
pocket  and  flung  the  case  on  to  the  table. 

"Look  for  yourself,"  he  said,  "and  if  you  wish  to  search  me 
,  .  ."  he  flung  out  his  arms — "you  are  at  liberty." 

Welling  opened  the  case  and  examined  the  papers  it  con- 
tained with  a  professional  eye.  Then  he  handed  the  leather 
pouch  back  to  its  owner. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "I  will  not  detain  you,  Mr.  Hamon." 

Hamon  picked  up  his  hat  and  stick,  pulled  on  his  gloves  and 
walked  leisurely  to  the  door. 

"If  you  want  me,  you  know  where  you  will  find  me — either 
at  my  house  in  Grosvenor  Place,  or  at  my  country  residence, 
Creith  House." 

Welling  smiled. 

"I  never  find  anybody  except  in  the  place  I  put  them,"  he 
said. 

Ralph  Hamon  strolled  down  the  long  corridor,  twirling  his 
stick,  and  out  on  to  the  Thames  Embankment,  where  a  hired 
car  was  awaiting  him.  On  his  way  through  the  Park  he  looked 
back  wondering  which  of  the  taxicabs  which  were  bowling 
along  behind  contained  the  shadow  that  Welling  had  affixed 
to  him. 

He  found  Lydia  waiting  in  a  state  of  nervous  tension. 

"What  did  they  say,  Ralph?"  she  asked,  almost  before  he 
was  in  the  room. 


THE  RETURN  331 

"What  could  they  say?"  he  smiled  contemptuously. 

He  went  to  her  writing  bureau,  pulled  out  a  cheque  book  and 
sat  down. 

"Since  you  are  so  infernally  nervous,  you  had  better  go  off 
to  Paris  this  afternoon,"  he  said,  and,  writing  a  cheque,  tore  it 
out  and  handed  it  to  her. 

She  looked  at  the  amount  and  gasped ;  then,  from  the  cheque, 
her  eyes  went  back  to  her  brother. 

"Have  you  this  amount  in  the  bank?"  she  asked,  and  he 
swung  round  to  stare  at  her. 

"Of  course  I  have,"  he  said. 

He  turned  again  to  the  table,  wrote  another  cheque  and, 
enclosing  it  in  an  envelope,  added  a  card:  "With  Compli- 
ments," and,  having  addressed  the  envelope,  rang  the  bell. 

"We  have  no  butler  now,  Ralph,"  she  said  nervously. 
"Would  you  like  me  to  take  the  letter  to  the  post?  Are  you 
staying  in  ?"  she  added. 

"No,"  he  answered  curtly,  "I  am  going  to  my  wife." 

Her  hand  went  up  to  her  mouth. 

"Your  wife,  Ralph  ?"  she  faltered.  "I  did  not  know  you  were 
married." 

"I  am  referring  to  Joan,"  he  said  gravely,  and  went  out,  and 
up  to  his  room. 

She  sat  motionless,  twisting  a  torn  handkerchief  in  her 
hand,  and  after  a  while  she  heard  him  come  down  again  and 
the  street  door  close.  She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out, 
to  see  him  enter  his  car  and  drive  off.  He  had  changed  his  at- 
tire, and  wore  the  suit  he  had  been  wearing  when  he  arrived 
that  morning.  Before  the  car  was  out  of  sight,  she  was  flying 
up  to  her  room  to  dress,  for  she  knew  that  the  moment  of  crisis 
was  at  hand. 


132  THE  BLACK 

CHAPTER   LXVIII 

The  End  of  Ramon 

WELLING  was  going  out  to  lunch  when  she  arrived,  and  he  met 
her  literally  on  the  doorstep. 

"I  must  see  you,  Captain  Welling,  at  once,"  she  said.  "It  is 
vitally  important." 

"Come  back  to  my  room,"  he  said  kindly.  "You  look  ill, 
Lydia." 

"I  am  distracted.  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do,"  she  said, 
her  voice  trembling. 

In  his  room  he  poured  her  a  glass  of  water,  and  waited  until 
she  was  sufficiently  composed  to  tell  him  the  object  of  her 
visit. 

"It  is  about  Ralph,"  she  said.  "He  was  here  this  morning?" 

The  old  man  nodded  with  a  rueful  smile. 

"He  was  here,  and  he  emerged  with  flying  colours,"  he  said. 
"If  it  was  a  bluff,  it  was  the  cleverest  bluff  I've  met  with.  You 
have  seen  him  since  ?" 

She  nodded. 

"He  came  back  to  the  house,  and  I  haven't  seen  him  so 
buoyant  in  years.  He  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to  go  to  Paris, 
and  gave  me  a  cheque.  Here  it  is." 

She  handed  him  the  cheque  and  the  detective  took  it  and 
read,  and  when  he  had  read,  he  whistled.  For  the  sum  which 
Ralph  Hamon  had  drawn  was  a  million  pounds ! 

"What  is  that  ?"  he  asked,  seeing  the  envelope  in  the  girl's 
hand.  It  was  addressed  to  him,  he  saw.  "From  your  brother  ?" 
he  asked  with  a  frown. 

She  nodded,  and,  tearing  open  the  envelope,  he  extracted  a 
second  cheque,  which  was  also  for  a  million  pounds. 

Welling  bit  his  lip. 

"That  looks  pretty  bad  to  me,"  he  said.  "Where  is  he  now  ?" 

"He's  gone  off  to  see  Joan.  He  called  her  his  wife,"  said  the 
girl. 


THE  END  OF  HAMON  333 

She  was  crying  softly,  and  he  put  his  arm  around  her  shoul- 
der and  patted  her  cheek. 

"You're  going  to  have  a  bad  time  for  a  while,  Lydia,"  he 
said,  "and  I  am  going  to  help  you  all  I  know  how.  You  must 
stay  at  an  hotel  to-night,  and  not  your  maid  or  any  of  your 
servants  must  know  where  you  are.  Come  and  lunch." 

She  protested  that  she  had  no  appetite,  but  he  insisted,  and 
did  not  leave  her  until  he  had  carried  her  bag  into  the  vestibule 
of  the  Grand  Central  and  handed  her  over  to  the  especial  care 
of  the  hotel  detective. 

He  had  come  so  far  in  a  taxicab,  but  a  big  police  car  was 
waiting  for  him,  with  three  men  from  police  headquarters. 

Jim  was  practising  with  a  golf  club  on  the  lawn  when  the 
car  arrived. 

"A  queer  occupation,"  said  Welling,  for  the  snow  lay  thick 
everywhere. 

"If  you  dip  a  gold  ball  in  ink "  began  Jim  lightly,  when 

he  caught  sight  of  the  car's  three  half-frozen  men  who  were 
huddled  in  its  depths.  "Come  inside,  Welling,"  he.  said.  "What 
is  the  trouble?" 

"There  is  trouble  for  somebody,  and  I'm  not  quite  sure  who 
it  is  going  to  be,"  said  Welling. 

He  told  all  he  knew,  related  the  incident  of  the  cheques,  and 
Jim  listened  in  silence. 

"I  am  putting  two  men  at  Creith  House,  You  had  better  put 
up  the  other  here." 

Jim  shook  his  head. 

"Let  the  three  go  to  Creith  House,"  he  said.  "I  can  look  after 
myself.  Has  he  left  London?" 

Welling  nodded. 

"He  had  a  car  in  a  garage — a  public  garage — near  by.  Un- 
fortunately, I  was  not  able  to  trace  that  until  it  was  too  late. 
This  afternoon  he  took  it  out,  and  since  then  he  has  not  been 
seen." 

Snow  was  falling  heavily  when  the  police  car  turned  through 
the  gates  of  Creith  House  and  made  a  slow  and  noisy  way  up 
the  drive.  Lord  Creith  watched  the  arrival  from  the  dining- 


334  THE  BLACK 

room  window,  and  came  to  the  door  to  meet  them.  At  the  first 
sight  of  Welling  his  face  fell. 

"There  is  going  to  be  bother,"  he  said  fretfully.  "You  stormy 
old  petrel !" 

They  were  glad  to  get  into  the  warmth  and  cosiness  of  the 
library,  for  it  was  bitterly  cold  and  the  snow  was  freezing  as  it 
fell. 

"Who  are  you  after?"  asked  Creith  anxiously.  "Not 
Hamon?" 

Welling  nodded. 

"Hamon  it  is.  He  is  in  England,  and  probably  not  four  miles 
from  Creith,"  he  said,  and  his  lordship  looked  serious. 

"Where  is  Joan  ?"  asked  Welling. 

"She  is  out,"  said  Creith.  "Mrs.  Cornford  asked  her  to  go 
down  to  lunch  at  the  cottage." 

Welling  shook  his  head  reprovingly. 

"From  now  on,  until  this  man  is  under  lock  and  key,  she 
must  not  be  allowed  out  alone,"  he  said.  "Somebody  ought  to 
go  and  bring  her  back." 

But  Jim  was  already  on  his  way.  He  ploughed  knee-deep 
through  the  icy  covering,  and,  finding  that  the  short  cut  to  the 
cottage  would  in  the  end  be  the  longest  way,  he  struggled  back 
to  the  drive  and  followed  the  wall  path.  Here  he  foun<!  the 
tracks  of  Joan ;  the  impress  of  her  rubber  boots  was  plain,  and 
he  felt  a  little  thrill  of  satisfaction  in  this  evidence  of  her  near- 
ness. 

Then,  for  no  apparent  reason,  the  footprints  turned  to  the 
right,  entering  the  deeper  snow  that  had  drifted  about  a  clump 
of  bushes.  With  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  he  followed 
them.  They  led  him  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  snow,  until  they 
turned  again  and  disappeared. 

He  peered  into  the  bushes  but  could  see  no  sign  of  her. 
Crushing  his  way  between  the  snow-covered  boughs,  he  found 
a  comparatively  clear  space  where  the  grass  showed.  But  there 
was  no  sign  of  Joan.  She  must  have  gone  out  somewhere,  and 
he  pushed  his  way  clear  of  the  bushes,  to  find  her  tracks  leading 
to  the  path  again. 

He  stood  with  a  frown  on  his  forehead,  puzzling  out  her  ec- 


THE  END  OF  HAMON  335 

centric  movements.  And  then  he  saw  another  set  of  footprints 
which  were  obviously  recent,  for  the  falling  snow  had  not  yet 
obliterated  them.  They  were  fairly  small,  and  the  toes  were 
pointed.  He  gasped — Hamon!  The  girl  must  have  seen  him 
coming  along  the  path,  and  then  flown  on  to  her  destination. 

He  turned  back,  this  time  following  Hamon's  tracks.  There 
were  two  sets :  one  going  toward  Creith  House  and  the  other 
returning;  and  presently  he  found  the  place  where  the  man 
had  turned.  Jim  unbuttoned  his  overcoat  and  took  from  his 
pocket  the  little  black  automatic,  and  slipped  it  into  his  over- 
coat ;  and  then,  hurrying  as  fast  as  the  snow  would  allow  him, 
he  made  for  the  gardener's  cottage,  all  the  time  keeping  his 
eyes  upon  the  footprints. 

At  the  end  of  the  path  the  two  sets  branched  off — Joan's 
toward  the  cottage.  He  ran  up  the  cottage  path,  and  a  glance 
at  the  house  told  him  that  something  unusual  had  happened. 
The  shutters  were  drawn  in  every  room.  He  knocked  at  the 
door,  and,  receiving  no  answer,  knocked  again  more  loudly. 

"Are  you  there,  Mrs.  Cornf ord  ?"  he  called,  and  he  thought 
he  heard  a  creaking  sound  inside,  and  flung  himself  against  the 
door. 

It  shook  under  his  weight,  and  an  agonised  voice  called : 

"If  you  open  the  door,  I  will  shoot  you." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Joan ! 

"It  is  I,  Joan,"  he  called  eagerly.  "Look  through  the  key- 
hole— it  is  Jim !" 

He  walked  back  half-a-dozen  paces  in  order  to  give  her  a 
clear  view,  and,  as  he  did  so,  he  felt  his  hat  jerked  violently 
from  his  head.  That  and  the  crack  of  the  explosion  came  to- 
gether, and  he  spun  round  to  face  the  danger.  Nobody  was  in 
sight. 

And  then  the  door  of  the  cottage  opened. 

"Keep  inside,"  he  cried.  "For  God's  sake  don't  come  out." 

Ping! 

The  bullet  struck  the  wall  of  the  cottage  with  a  snap,  and, 
running,  he  gained  the  shelter  of  the  passage  and  slammed  the 
door. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad !"  sobbed  the  girl  distraitly.  "Oh,  Jim,  I'm 


336  THE  BLACK 

frightened — irightened !  I  saw  him  in  the  grounds,"  she  went 
on,  when  he  had  soothed  her. 

"And  you  hid  in  the  bushes — I  followed  your  tracks.  He 
didn't  see  you  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Not  until  I  was  nearly  at  the  cottage,  and  then  he  ran  after 
me.  Mrs.  Cornford  had  seen  him,  and  had  put  up  her  shutters. 
It  is  Hamon,  isn't  it  ?" 

Jim  nodded. 

The  shutters  operated  from  inside  the  house,  and  he  gently 
raised  the  lower  half  of  one  and  peered  out.  He  had  hardly 
done  so  before  a  bullet  smashed  the  window,  tore  a  long,  jagged 
hole  in  the  wooden  shutter,  and  temporarily  numbed  his  hand 
with  the  shock. 

"I  think  we  had  better  wait,"  he  said.  "Welling  will  have 
heard  the  shots.  Our  only  hope  is  that  friend  Hamon  guesses, 
by  my  hasty  retreat,  that  I  am  unarmed,  and  comes  to  close 
quarters." 

"Have  you  no  weapon  ?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

He  produced  a  little  pistol. 

''Only  this,"  he  said,  "which  is  comparatively  useless  except 
at  short  range.  It  is,  in  fact,"  he  smiled,  "the  weapon  with 
which  I  have  terrified  night  watchmen  and  unfortunate  bank- 
ing official  these  ten  years  past." 

He  had  rightly  estimated  the  effect  of  his  precipitate  flight 
upon  the  cunning  madman  who  was  glaring  at  the  house  from 
behind  the  cover  of  a  wood  pile.  Hamon  knew  that  Jim  Mor- 
lake  would  not  fly  into  the  house  if  he  had  a  gun  handy ;  and 
he  knew,  too,  that  the  sound  of  the  shooting  must  soon  bring 
assistance.  Already  a  curious  and  fearful  knot  of  children  had 
gathered  in  the  middle  of  the  street  at  a  respectful  distance,  and 
if  he  were  to  accomplish  his  great  revenge,  and  bring  to  fruition 
a  plan  that  had  occupied  his  mind  for  the  past  three  months,  he 
must  move  quickly. 

He  sprang  from  his  place  of  concealment  and  ran  across  the 
cottage  garden ;  and,  as  he  expected,  he  drew  no  fire  from  the 
house.  He  looked  round  for  something  he  could  use  as  a 
battering-ram,  and  his  eyes  returned  to  the  wood  pile, 


THE  END  OF  HAMON  337 

going  back,  he  picked  up  a  heavy  branch  and  brought  it  to  the 
door.  The  whole  cottage  seemed  to  shake  under  the  impact  of 
the  ram,  and  Jim,  watching  from  the  passage,  knew  that  the 
Jock  would  not  stand  another  blow. 

"Keep  back,"  he  warned  the  girl  in  a  whisper,  and  slipped 
through  the  door  which  led  from  the  passage  into  the  room 
where  Farringdon  had  lost  his  life. 

Again  Hamon  struck,  and  the  lock  broke  with  a  crash.  In 
another  second,  Hamon  had  pushed  open  the  door,  and,  gun  in 
hand,  had  stepped  in.  He  saw  the  open  doorway  and  guessed 
who  stood  there. 

"Come  out,  Morlake !"  he  screamed.  "Come  out,  you  dog !" 

He  fired  at  the  lintel,  and  the  bullet  ricochetted  past  Jim's 
face.  Jim  was  waiting  for  the  second  shot,  and  when  it  came  he 
leapt  out,  his  little  black  pistol  levelled. 

Before  Hamon  could  fire,  Jim  pressed  the  trigger.  There  was 
no  explosion.  Only  from  the  muzzle  of  the  black  "gun"  shot 
with  terrific  force  a  white  spray  of  noxious  vapour.  It  struck 
the  would-be  murderer  in  the  face,  and  with  a  choking  gasp  he 
fell  heavily  to  the  floor. 

Jim's  eyes  were  watering,  he  himself  found  it  difficult  to 
breathe,  and  he  came  back  for  a  moment  to  the  girl,  who  held 
her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth. 

"Open  the  windows,"  he  ordered  quickly,  and  then  went  back 
to  the  unconscious  man,  just  as  Welling  and  his  men  came  fly- 
ing up  the  path. 

"It  isn't  pleasant,  is  it?"  said  Jim,  eyeing  his  stubby  gun 
with  a  smile.  "It  has  never  carried  a  cartridge,  because  it  isn't 
built  that  way.  It  throws  a  spray  of  pure  ammonia  vapour,  and 
throws  it  a  considerable  distance." 

It  was  necessary  to  put  the  maniac  into  a  strait- jacket  be- 
fore he  could  be  moved  to  the  nearest  lock-up,  and  they  did  not 
see  Welling  again  until  he  came  to  Creith  House  late  that 
afternoon,  weary  and  bedraggled,  but  with  a  look  of  triumph 
in  his  eyes. 

"Well,"  he  said,  speaking  to  the  company  in  general  but  ad- 
dressing Jim,  "I  have  discovered  the  mystery  is  not  such  a 
jnystery  after  all.  And  why  I  did  not  hit  upon  the  solution  as 


THE  BLACK 

soon  as  I  heard  and  knew  that  you  were  burgling  banks  and 
strong  rooms  in  order  to  secure  a  document  which  would  in- 
criminate Ralph  Hamon,  I  cannot  for  the  life  of  me  under- 
stand. Maybe  I  am  getting  old  and  dull." 

"I  am  too,"  said  the  girl,  "for  it  certainly  puzzles  me." 

Lord  Creith  stretched  his  hands  to  the  blazing  warmth, 
rubbed  them  together  and  ruminated  profoundly. 

"I  give  it  up  too — our  American  friend  must  explain.  But 
perhaps  you  have  the  document,  Welling  ?" 

Captain  Welling  smiled. 

"It  is  here,"  he  said,  and  produced  Ralph  Hamon's  pocket- 
book.  "It  seemed  incredible  to  me  that  Hamon  should  carry 
about  with  him  a  statement  written  by  his  victim  that  would 
most  inevitably  bring  him  to  the  gallows  if  it  ever  was  pro- 
duced in  a  court  of  law." 

"Then  why  the  devil  didn't  he  burn  it?"  asked  Lord  Creith 
irritably,  and  for  answer  Welling  produced  the  document. 

Lord  Creith  read  it  through  with  a  frown. 

"He  could  have  burnt  this "  he  began. 

"Turn  it  over,"  said  Welling  quietly,  and  Creith  obeyed. 

He  stared  for  a  moment  at  the  engraved  letters  on  the  other 
side. 

"Good  God!"  he  said. 

The  statement  was  written  on  the  back  of  a  Bank  of  England 
note  for  £100,000. 

"He  could  have  burnt  it,"  said  Jim,  "but  his  natural  cupidity 
would  not  allow  him  to  destroy  so  much  money.  He  dared  not 
pay  it  into  the  bank;  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  do  away 
with  the  evidence  of  his  guilt.  When  I  found  John  Cornford, 
he  was  dying,  and  the  first  name  I  heard  was  that  of  Ralph 
Hamon,  whom  I  had  met  once  in  Tangier  and  knew  to  be  a 
shady  customer.  And  then  I  recognised  in  the  sailor  the  myste- 
rious visitor  that  Hamon  had  had  some  months  before.  Little 
by  little,  I  learnt  from  the  half-sane  man  the  story  of  Hamon's 
villainy.  In  order  that  he  might  not  be  wronged,  Cornford  had 
changed  all  his  money  into  one  note  of  a  hundred  thousand 
pounds.  I  was  able  to  trace  that  at  the  bank,  and  even  if  Hamon 
had  presented  it  for  payment,  it  would  have  been  stopped.  The 


THE  END  OF  HAMON  339 

monkey  and  the  gourd,"  he  mused ;  "he  could  not  let  go  of  his 
treasure  and  he  was  caught." 


On  a  bitterly  cold  day  in  January,  when  the  whole  country 
was  ice-bound,  and  rivers  which  had  never  known  obstruction 
were  frozen  from  bank  to  bank,  Jim  Morlake  and  Joan  Carston 
came  out  of  Creith  parish  church,  man  and  wife.  They  left  that 
afternoon  by  car  for  London,  and  it  was  Joan's  wish  that  they 
should  make  a  detour  through  Ascot. 

"You  are  sure  you  don't  mind,  Jim  ?"  she  asked  for  the  tenth 
time,  as  the  car  was  rolling  swiftly  along  the  frozen  Bagshot 
Road. 

"Why,  of  course  not,  honey.  It  is  very  dear  of  you." 

"He  was  a  boy,  just  a  silly,  romantic  boy,  who  had  held  such 
promise  of  a  big  career,  and  I  feel  that  this — this  ruined  him." 

She  was  thinking  of  Ferdinand  Farringdon,  and  Jim  under- 
stood. They  halted  near  the  place  where  the  black  pines  hid  the 
little  church  in  the  wood,  and  she  handed  a  great  bunch  of  lilies 
to  Jim  as  he  got  out  of  the  car. 

"Lay  them  on  th  2  altar,  Jim,"  she  said,  and  he  nodded  and 
slammed  the  door  tight. 

The  cold  was  phenomenal :  it  struck  through  his  fur-lined 
coat  and  made  his  fingers  tingle.  How  different  it  was  in  win- 
ter, he  thought !  And  yet  the  chapel  In  the  wood  had  a  beauty  of 
its  own,  even  on  this  dreir  day.  As  he  .arned  to  cross,  he  stood 
looking,  and  then  he  saw  the  figure  Touched  against  the  steps 
— a  bundle  of  rags  that  bore  no  semblance  to  anything  human. 
He  ran  forward  and  looked  down  into  the  cold,  grey  face, 
strangely  beautiful  in  death.  What  ircak  impulse  brought  Ban- 
nockwaite  to  the  door  of  the  church  he  had  built,  there  to  die  in 
the  cold  night  ? 

Jim  looked  round :  there  was  nobody  in  sight,  and,  stooping, 
he  laid  the  lilies  on  the  dead  man's  stiffened  hands,  and,  bare- 
beaded,  walked  back  to  the  car. 

TEE  END 


fio  I  R6-] 

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